Center of the city.

Oh, and let me just write one more fucking rant, since Facebook and Twitter ranting are out of the picture... because the person I want to rant about follows me on both accounts:

DON'T fucking tell me what to do. Ever. Because I'll do the fucking opposite. 

And QUIT acting like you can afford all this expensive, luxurious shit. You CAN'T, and we all know that, so enough with the fronting. You've put in a fucking total of FIVE euro in the 500€ we've spent in the last 3 days. 

FUUUUUUUCK I'm motherfucking annoyed.

At 25

Today was a beautiful day.
Sure, it rained in the morning-- time at which I had to walk to the metro to head to the airport to pickup Clemson.
It was also raining when Pacemaker, Clemson and I decided to head to the grocery store.
However, once sunset rolled around, the skies were completely clear.

Yesterday was odd, and useless, because my brother was involved in a fender bender with a taxi. He got the embassy involved and it was a complete brouhaha. Because of the drama, my brother didn't come home until past 9PM, so we basically stayed home and tried cheering him up.
Today we thought would go the same way, but we actually had time to go out to a bar and chill for a few hours.

Things are awkward-ish... because his friends are pretty different from me.
There was a moment where I was a complete mute, because one of the girls went off talking about how dumb it is for my parents to believe their daughters would not have already had sex by age 25 (we were discussing my folks' upset nature when Sister left the nest).
It is beyond weird to sit there and be like "Yeah... totally fucking stupid... 25 year old virgins... in Vegas... pffft!" I sit there like "Yeah, man, totally... I've fucked my good number of dudes. Totally. I fucking love fucking!" I have to fight the urge to burst out laughing... then crying. It feels pretty awful, actually. It feels shitty to be such a rare person out there... pretty fucking shitty. And then to once again ruminate on the whole "well, I should just fuck to get it over with," but then always coming up with the same conclusion that NO, no man, I don't have any interest in fucking. No interest and no rush to fuck. And so... you just end up feeling like such a fucking freak.
So yeah, this girl made that comment and I chuckled a "Yeah..." then spent the rest of the night thinking about the subject and being unable to shake off the thought that I'm such a fucking weirdo.
Drinking while thinking about sex--or lack thereof-- is never a good thing... it never ends well... well, never ends with me fucking, anyway. It's just me, being introspective, feeling embarrassed, completely alone in the world... and realizing I want to keep it that way because I am not comfortable with the though of actually banging ANYONE.

Ugh. I've gone off too much on a tangent. But yeah, that was the topic of conversation and it fucked me up real good and now I'm sad and drunk, sitting in a cold room in Athens. WOOOOOHOOO!

Rainy days always suck

It has been a rainy day.
Today we decided to venture out and find a grocery store.
Of course we got lost. In the rain.
Of course this pissed me off.

Eventually we found our way to the "food store."
This language barrier frustrates me more than the German language barrier. I look at the letters and all I can think of are my math and science classes. Some of these letters I haven't seen since my calculus days-- eleven years ago.
I sit there and smile... only know how to say "thank you," just "efcharistó."
Reading is out of the question.

LUCKILY, people here are very kind. The moment they see me smile and shyly whisper "efcharistó" their faces light up and they try to speak some more greek... only to have me say "english?" and they switch to english for me.

Frustration runs high currently. People are frustrated because they've been locked in the house... by people, I mean Pacemaker. She's here and is frustrated by the fact that we've wasted all day today locked in.
I could rant about this for a good number of paragraphs, but I'll just say her frustration is only building up my own frustration and irritation.
I'm here to see my brother... not be anyone's tour-guide. If there's time to sightsee, cool, if not, who gives a fuck? Calm your tits, or go out and venture on your own-- my brother's house isn't going anywhere.

Hopefully tomorrow's better.

DudeSearch

I've been terrible about updating. I was hoping to update sometime throughout the last week... but my days seemed to run so much shorter, and whenever I had access to wifi, I'd spend my time angrily ranting to my sibling/family about how much I hate certain passive-aggressive "friends" and family of mine.
It's very uncomfortable for me to notice how upset and worked up I can get over the behavior of certain "friends" of mine... as well as many, MANY family members (particularly, from my father's side. Bunch of hating-ass motherfuckers). I don't fucking get it. To my face they're all love and "togetherness" then they are glaringly absent from acknowledging anything I do that I perceive as fun... or even amazing. And not to toot my own horn, but I KNOW I take good photos... the only times I add a filter are when my face will be prominent-- I try to blur that shit out. Other than that, filters are something I don't allow myself to use-- because that's cheating. Period.
So ANYWAY, I need to get off that tangent because I become pretty fucking irate.

SO I'd be getting online infrequently, and when I would be connected, I'd just post photos and proceed to grow very fucking angry... because some people are jealous pieces of shit that really should not be part of my life, honestly.

Life without internet is great. Life with internet is agitating.
I collected many anecdotes, all of which I wrote down on paper.
I did A LOT of people watching... and observed so much art and architecture... and just... observed human behavior-- my own included.
This trip I'd probably remember as my Dude Search.
I did NOT want to look for men, but of course, my brain betrayed me and I caught myself getting HELL of boy-crazy... like a teen.

In Italy, I found myself holding eye-contact with guys... and had my mother not been around, I probably would have been pretty sleazy... ok, no I wouldn't, but I definitely liked what I saw the majority of the time.
Italian men seemed to think I was one of their own-- an Italiana. I'd constantly find myself just smiling and shrugging after a local would ask me questions in Italian. By the third day, I actually gave an Italian lady instructions on how to exit the metro correctly... in Italian. Me. Giving direction to get OUT OF A METRO. The Vegas local, who knows nothing about public transportation. In Italian.
I'd marry an Italian... or just procreate with one, I'd be cool with that.

Spain? Spain was kind of a bummer... but when isn't it?
This time, I noticed a HUGE spike in South American immigrants. Last year it was a spike in Indians/Middle-Easterners, this year, it's a huge Hispanic population. And while all of this does not bother me, what DOES bother me is seeing the TREATMENT of these people. The manner the South Americans walk the streets upsets me. They do not hold eye-contact, they look scared, and they try to make themselves look SMALLER. They look... like a stray puppy who constantly gets kicked in the street by strangers. The way they are looked at by some of the Spanish infuriates me. The way some Spaniards refer to these people infuriates me. They have that... egotistical, patronizing... self-righteous air about them... elitist as fuck.
Not a day went by where I did not hear someone refer to a dark, short person as a "Sudaca"... or even just drop that derogatory term mid-conversation. At one point, a young man about 19-20, tried flirting with me. The Spanish boy looked me in the face, smiled, looked me up an down lustfully, and said "Ciao, chata!" ("chata" is a derogatory term for those who have Native American facial features) as he walked past me, turning around as I walked past so he could scope my ass. I felt so offended, I got teary-eyed. Normally, this would only piss me off, but considering I fucking adore Barcelona, seeing this drastic turn of events upset the fucking shit out of me.
NO! NOT YOU, BARCELONA! NO! DON'T LET THE RACISM WIN!
When I walk the Barcelona streets in company of my sister, I don't see this side of the people... because they seem to think I'm one of them. But in company of my little mom? They were hardcore racist... and nothing is more upsetting to me than seeing someone mistreat my little Mexican mom.
So anyway, I know this was another tangent of some sort... but it popped into my head.
While Spanish men did flirt with me, it was a weird sort of flirting... like they were flirting with... a weird specimen. They knew I was a weird mix... not entirely Spanish, not entirely "South American" (not AT ALL South American, but apparently they can't distinguish the look of South Americans versus Mexicans), something weird... familiar in a way, but exotic... weird. I didn't flirt much with Spaniards, I was too busy trying not to cry at how horribly they were murdering my beautiful memory of their country/culture.
I would MAYBE marry a Spaniard... and probably not procreate with one... I was taller than many of them... and OF COURSE always wider than them.

But let's now move on, before I break my heart too hard.
Let's talk pleasant shit. Let's talk France.
BOY OH BOY! Was I popular in Paris! Dudes were hitting on me left and right... whether I was alone or in the company of my mother. French men had a strange ability to pick up on not only the fact that I was a spanish-speaker, but a Mexican.
French dudes were the most insistent on holding eye-contact... it became uncomfortable.
I'm pretty sure I bumped into my future husband while at the Louvre. The guy was one of the museum workers, and *tried* flirting with me... but you know how I have that problem where I refuse to believe cute guys flirt with me, so I end up looking clueless and miss a good opportunity? Yeah, that happened here.
Instead of catching his flow, I became confused, which only made me look like a cold idiot... so he gave up, rather than become that creepy jerk.

Some day I'll become good at interacting with men I actually feel attracted to... not do any of this clueless, confused shit I do.

Marry a French guy? Nah. Have a baby with a French guy? Dude, have you seen their eyes? FUCK. YES!
... but I'd first have him tested.

Leg two

All right... so where did I leave off? I'm not even sure what I wrote was coherent. I didn't read it over because I had an audience at my shoulder.

Zurich?
That place is expensive. Pretty as fuck... but expensive.
I strolled around for a bit... all sorts of fucked up from my nausea, my ear ache, and my uh... bloody visitor. When mother nature wants to fuck you up, she FUCKS. YOU. UP. Thoroughly. Men will never understand. (I'll take a random, sudden, public boner over a blood-stained ass/crotch ANY DAY. You fucking kidding me?)

Anyway, so my plane from Zurich to Athens was delayed by around ten minutes, but did I notice? Hell nah, I was fucked up as shit. I had no clue.
To add insult to injury, the cunt running the boarding show did NOT announce boarding time... and everything turned into a fucking zoo. My mother and I were some of the last passengers to board the plane because our passes were fucked (of course they fucking would be, OF COURSE).
Once IN the plane, we realized there was zero overhead compartment space left, because I forgot what total fucking savaged Europeans are when it comes to overhead space (when they place their fucking coats in there, swear a fucking vein in my brain bursts from the rage. Inconsiderate fucks). So Mom and I Mexican'd it up, and placed our shit under the seat in front of us... as the motherfucking MAN sitting on our row (window seat. Man who placed EVERYTHING in his person up in that fucking overhear space-- but we got him back later) looked on... and we gave him the glare from hell (don't fuck with an angry Mexican woman).
So we sit through this ride... where I STILL want to puke all over the place, but resort to covering my nose with my coat. I was going in and out of consciousness due to having swallowed a anti-nausea pill (Dramamine saves my life when I go to Mexico, so why not Europe, ya know?), and that shit takes me out like a dart to the neck takes out a rhino.
In my random ins-and-outs of consciousness, I remember food being served... and fighting with all my might not to vomit all over the place when I realized it was a cheese sandwich they were serving. I remember the flight-attendant's very concerned look as she asked me (in a very choppy accent) if I was ok, if I needed anything. I just nodded and said "I'm ok," or at least, I think I did.
They also had the air circulating, and I FELT when I got sick. Some motherfucker on the plane was sneezing and coughing (without covering his pig fucking mouth)... and about twenty minutes later, three more of us followed with our lovely sneezes and coughs.
So, there I am, once again sort of awake, when I notice the flight attendants handing passengers little squares from a basket. I was clear-headed enough to remember Swiss gives away free chocolate to its passengers at the end of the flights.
"Oh, I'm not missing this shit!" I thought, as I felt the sleep-monster creep up on me.
The fucking flight attendant was two rows away when everything goes black and I once again open my eyes when the flight attendant is reaching his hand away from me... and the motherfucking son of a bitch sitting in my row has THREE chocolate squares.
The SON OF A BITCH TOOK MY MOTHER AND MY SHARE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING CHOCOLATE! SON OF A FUCKING CUNT!
I was irate!
But ten seconds later, I was once again unconscious.
I was once again woken up by the hideous pain in my ears... swearing my head was going to explode like a cantaloupe getting smashed by a sledgehammer. I was wringing my hands so hard, I seriously could have broken a couple of my phalanges.
Eventually we landed... and everyone bumrushed the overhead bins. Everyone but the motherfucking pig bastard piece of fucking shit sitting in the window seat of my row. I purposely puffed myself out, grabbed my hand luggage, placed it on my lap, and Mom did the same. When we want to be cunts... we are the motherfucking WORST (it helps that my mom is built like a little bull and I'm built like a... dangerous stork? We just look scary and dangerous when we're angry).
Mom and I relaxed in our seat and just grinned the most passive-aggressive grin we know how to flash at motherfuckers who have wronged us and are now paying the price. We waited until the last possible second to get up... then some more to actually MOVE out of our seats.

Not once were we checked, or even questioned about our luggage anywhere. We found my brother (more like he found us. Mom and I were pretty jacked up by now), headed to his house, and I knocked out until about 7AM.
I proceeded to lounge around and then did yoga while listening to some music.
Mom was still unconscious as ever in her room.
At 11AM and went to go check on her well-being.
She woke up... and I took a seat on the bed... and knocked out... until 6pm.
I felt horrible. Sleeping the day away is the worst fucking feeling for me.

Still, at 8 my brother showed up and took us out for some genuine greek food.
The people are fucking gorgeous. The men have some stunning eyes which I can't help but stare into like some... hypnotized zombie. All I need to do is just start fucking drooling all over the place.
I don't understand ONE fucking thing... I keep forgetting how to say "thank you" and "please." I just know how to say "yes," which... might not be the safest thing.
Our waiter last night had amazing eyes... and he gave us free drinks all night. I was drunk as shit by the end of our two-hour meal.
I came home... with the worst stuffy nose I've had in a long time... and tried to go to sleep.
I just rolled around in bed and sweated everywhere.

I am now just walking around with a roll of toilet paper in my hand, ready to blow my nose every five minutes.

Tomorrow I head out to Rome... which... yey. That'll be great.
That's sarcasm, by the way... Rome is nothing but rain, and all I really know how to do is tell people I'm hungry for an apple.

I don't know how my crafty mother was so shafted with two useless daughters (me FAR more so than my sister).
I'm sorry Ma!
(oh, and it's 10:25 AM, Thursday the 4th)

Leg one

Well this has been a trip.
I have no idea how this will be posted, but it's 11:21pm, Wednesday the 3rd (shit, at least I think it is).

This has by far been the worst trip I have ever taken up to date.
Not even that godforsaken 36 hour bus ride in the summer compares to this shit.
First off, I was puking up a storm before even boarding the plane... before leaving my house.
On the flight (it was great. It took off on time and everyone was very courteous. I guess the only thing that sucked for me was how I could hardly understand them, since they mostly spoke German the majority of the time) everything was fine for the first three hours-- I was knocked out.
Then hour four struck, and all hell broke loose with my body.
I can only blame the food for the disaster-- the SMELL of the food.
Back in '09, I had a chicken sandwich on a flight headed to Mexico City, on our way to Cancun. As we chilled in Mexico's airport, I was barfing up a storm.
Ever since that ugly episode, I've been extremely sensitive to smells on planes... they fuck me up. Anything that resembles a chicken sandwich fucks me up.
Guess the meal of the day on this 12 hour plane ride. Chicken. With bread on the side.
I fucking blew chunks like a motherfucker.
The moment I felt I was going to lose control, I looked out the window and began "thinking happy thoughts." Bunnies. Puppies. Kitties. Baby ponies running amok in the fields. Butterflies fluttering.
All to no avail.
For the first time in my life, I used an airplane's bathroom. First time ever. At 29.
So there I was, barfing in this confined space, trying to regain my composure.
After about what felt like half an hour, I braved it out the bathroom, to make eye-contact with my flight companions. I'd have to say they all had the look of pity for me... I bet they thought I was pregnant.
I chilled in my seat for two movies ("Boyhood" and "How to Train Your Dragon 2"-- don't judge me for that one... I was told I was going to like it, and I sure did. I sat there like a fucking five year old, crying at the end. Oh well, at least it took my mind off how sick I was feeling), and then BOOM! Here we go again, race to the bathroom. This second time was far more frustrating, because it happened during breakfast service... so I very desperately had to wait for the cart to and flight attendants to get the fuck out of the aisle (the bathrooms at the back were occupied by far smarter people than yours-truly). Eventually I made it to the bathroom and continued with round two. Again the looks of pity.
To feel better, I went ahead and watched my final movie-- "Guardians of the Galaxy." And I cried. Multiple times.
I was feeling a little better, and thought I'd be much better after arriving... but arriving was the issue. My ears were FUCKED. UP. I don't know what the issue is, all I know is that the change in pressure really fucks up my inner ear. It feels as though my ears will explode... my fucking HEAD will blow up. Like an icepick is being shoved into each ear, down to my fucking trachea.
But I finally make it to Zurich.

I'll talk some more about that shit later. I now have to log off and allow my brother to use his computer.

Got it after all

And then I leave the country for a month.

You know my MO:

In case I die: eh, it was ok.

Ps. Of course I'd have a cold/cough AND be bleeding at this time. Of course.
Thanks, Universe.
I'll quit bitching now, things could be worse (but please don't be!).