Str8 Compton

I officially live in Compton.

I came home last night to see my street was blocked off by seven police patrols. As I worked my way around them (they closed off two blocks. I was ready to run over a fugitive if I had to), I saw another patrol parked in my driveway, and a helicopter hovering over my house, lighting my backyard.
WTF?! What did my dad do now?!
As I got out of my car, the cop honked at me and pressed his siren.
Hell NO I'm not walking towards your car... especially with a fugitive in my fucking neighborhood. I lived in the hood long enough to know to lock my ass IN my house and not linger around, looky-loo imbecile-style. Those motherfuckers wind up dead or in a hostage situation. Anything important, you get out of your patrol and tell me what's going on. Otherwise, I'm running into my house, into safety.
Did I find out what happened? No. I just saw two patrols drive into the desert-area in front of my house, and two cops walk around with dogs... obviously looking for someone.
Once the cops left and it was around midnight, Mom was scared, expecting to get murdered by the person the cops were searching for. I knocked out like a rock, not giving a shit (the ONE positive to being disillusioned and depressed. You quit giving a fuck if someone breaks into your house and slits your throat as you sleep... sometimes you might even welcome that shit).

Anyway, I'm an old lady and I get tired far too easily now.
All my body wants to do is sleep...
so... I guess that's it for today's post.
I was going to talk about getting chastised at the pho place... or about Pacemaker talking shit about my photos... or about my PrincetonSoulmate... maybe even mention todays hysterical DD... but I'm tired, and I don't want to spook away the sandman who is currently chucking a load of his sand into my eyes.
...
Ok, I'll mention the DD real quick:
I went shopping w/ Mooney and as she was at the register paying for her stuff, I looked over towards some jeans and caught the most... glaring DD of the day.
I wasn't paying much attention, however, when I scanned over the description of the jeans, I did a double-take because a word looked familiar.
Wait... did I just read "Darcy?"
So I read it again.

You don't say?

It made me laugh, because back in the day, I remember talking to Kelley about Darcy and how he was so cute and blah blah blah, but I had a concern.
Me: God... I fucking hate coming to school. CW is probably the only class I look forward to because at least I get to see Darcy. That guy's SO cute! ::sigh::
Kelley: Well, why don't you hang out with him or something?
Me: See... I don't... is he... am I the only one who... I don't know if he's... gay...
Kelley: AHAHAHAHA! No, no, I think you have nothing to worry about. I'm pretty sure he's definitely straight.

I still spent the rest of the semester crushing away on Darcy... but always wondering Is he... or... isn't he... ?
That sign today made me laugh to the point where I almost suffered a side-ache.
The poor girl running the register was also a little baffled/scared by me (I've been so neurotic lately... I should probably retreat to my reclusive nature and quit scaring people with my weirdo behavior).
I'm such an idiot.

OK, I must go to sleep now. I'm exhausted as fuck.
Maybe tomorrow I'll vent over this new issue with Pacemaker and how she's currently hurting my heart with her fucking shit-talk. It's fucking 5th grade all over again.

El tren, una silla.

Esperando por un tren que jamás llegará.

Romantic Schizophrenic

Rafa: Oh! You never told me! How'd it go with the grad schools?!
Me: I didn't get into any.
Rafa: Damn... none?
Me: Nope. None.
Rafa: So what are your plans now? Joining the Peace Corps?
Me: hmmm... yeah, maybe, I guess. That... or just committing suicide. One of the two is bound to work out.

That was the first conversation I had with my brother when he picked me up from the train station in Princeton. It was about five seconds into the car ride.
Everyone in the car gasped.
I'm the definition of a ray of sunshine.

It's true that I haven't been this happy in a very, VERY long time... but still, I catch myself feeling sad... even while in New York (when I was at Central Park, it was gorgeous and I was enjoying my time, but then I'd see all the street performers, all SO talented, but practically begging for chump change. The sketch artists would doodle you a caricature or a more realistic sketch of yourself, and it was all for five dollars. Five FUCKING dollars. WHY must I have been born with the soul of an artist? The fucking hobos of the world... fuck my life, dude). Just randomly. I'm pretty sure this inexplicable sadness is something I'll deal with for the rest of my life. I'm just a sad girl.

I tried explaining my naturally sad/quiet disposition to Pacemaker (as we waited in line to get into the McQueen exhibit)... you know, my fluctuating personality where I can be so happy one day, and miserable the next. A concept she can't grasp. I tried using McQueen as an example, but it was just confusing her.
It was frustrating.

Here she was excited about getting to see the Alexander McQueen exhibition, but the more I'd try talking about McQueen, the more I realized she had NO FUCKING CLUE who he was, or what any of his work looked like. She just knew he had something to do with the royal wedding (she didn't even know he was dead, much less that he committed suicide after his mother died. I felt like a very reluctant teacher as we waited in line and I had to catch her up on some of his work).
She wanted to appear cultured and read-up on fashion... while all I really wanted to do was see this guy's work in person, not because I think I'm a fashionista, but because I just... feel his work, if that makes any sort of sense.
Once I gave up on trying to explain myself to Pacemaker, I finally just said "Check out his work... all that shit he created... that's what goes on in my head. That's pretty much my soul. There are moments of bright, whimsical beauty, and others of... abysmal darkness... melancholy."

The entrance (the white dress is made of clams. It was great).

Pacemaker was kind of getting it, at first, when the dresses were kind of tame... stuff maybe Beyonce would wear.

Dress smack-dab in the middle is my joint. I'd wear that in a heartbeat.
The shoes on the far right were also awe-inspiring

"I'm a romantic schizophrenic" came around... and she started getting A LITTLE uncomfortable.
"Well... that's weird..."

Weird indeed... but I still wanted to pet it.

Then his work started getting even darker.
We entered a room where they showed one of his runway shows... and that's when Pacemaker lost it.
The girls were dressed in headgear that was bone-related... or blood-inspired... and they'd be walking with a complete skeleton tied to their feet, getting dragged.

"Eww! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" -Pacemaker
Something tells me Pacemaker won't have the stomach to accompany me to the Tim Burton exhibit...

It WAS a little jarring to watch... but I was intrigued because... it was interesting.

Once we left the exhibition, we continued talking about what we had seen.
Pacemaker: Wow... wow. That was creepy.
Me: Really? I thought it was beautiful. It was... me.
Pacemaker: That really goes on in YOUR head? How do you sleep at night?!
Me: Trust me, there are scarier things... that's just how my life and my mind work. I can be very happy, but when I'm dark... I fall to the pits of hell. Plus, he had some happy stuff, like that gorgeous flower dress... and there was that flowing dress... although that one made me cry because there was so much melancholy in the fluidity of it...
Pacemaker: Really? You got that out of seeing a dress flow in the wind?
Me: I'm weird like that. My bad.
Pacemaker: You're... interesting.

I tried. I guess it becomes difficult to understand when even I sometimes don't understand why in the world I can't find the strength to smile.
I'm just... a girl who is often sad, but will go to any lengths to make others NOT feel as empty and depressed as she. The good-girl who will always have that slight mischievous streak.

2AM, about to get yelled at by the stoop's owner, but I'm still taking the risk.
For "Hey, Arnold!"'s sake.

"I oscillate between life and death, happiness and sadness, good and evil."- Alexander McQueen
"La tristesse durera toujours."- Van Gogh

I'm motherfucking emo today. The day just wouldn't fucking end.

Where are YOU going?

Ok, so yesterday was not one of my best days.
I was supposed to get home at 9PM, but so much shit weather had me arriving at home at 1AM. I had been awake since 6AM, East time (after going to bed at 4:30AM), so I was ready to bite anyone's head off.
I will say, the Boston layover was nice... the city is gorgeous, not to mention the men there. I loved the accent... which I blame Matt Damon and Ben Affleck for that.
The thing that WAS NOT nice was getting stranded on the fucking plane. The ugly storm with the tornados was passing by as we were on the tarmac, second in line to take off.
I sat there praying like a Passionist Nun.

But now I'm home. And Rafa's here.
We've had some memorable conversations in these last few hours of being awake.

(In the kitchen, I'm grabbing some blueberries from the fridge while Rafa's eating his little omelette. I'm reminded of the guy whose place we stayed at, aka my PrincetonSoulmate)
Me: So you're SURE Darren isn't gay?
Rafa: NO! He's NOT. That health-conscious Australian actually gets a ton of girls.
Me: I can see why... he's... not my soulmate, but we have a freakish amount of things in common. We're like the same person.
Rafa: How do you know?
Me: I was living in his house for three and a half days, I KNOW that kid like the back of my hand now... because he practically has the same fucking hand!
Rafa: HE'S NOT A KID, DAMN IT! THE MAN'S 32! HE'S FUCKING OLD AS FUCK! Everyone in Princeton Grad is! I was the fucking baby there.

And here Rafa was considered the grandpa while at Notre Dame...

(I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water)
Rafa: Where the hell are you going?!
(I look at myself in the family room mirror. My hair is in its usual braid I do at night so I don't wake up with knots in my hair--and so I won't rip it out as I toss and turn like an animal. I'm wearing a grey wifebeater and black running shorts--my pajamas. No shoes. No makeup)
Me: Nowhere... ?... This is just how I look in the mornings.

A lovely, unintentional Rafa-styled compliment right there.

Ahhh, to be home! I can finally fix all that is wrong with me:
I have the weirdest tan going on (being a Vegas girl, I find it odd that I left Vegas pale and acquired my tan in the East Coast. It's supposed to be cold and cloudy over there), my clavicles are hurting (stupid fucking heavy-ass bag), and my stomach wants me dead (I ate so much garbage... well, no, not garbage... it was delicious food NY is known for, though I refused to eat any hotdogs because I can't stand the thought of them. I did have a sourdough bagel... which sure as hell didn't win me any points on the "health scale." AND I ate ice-cream as if I had just been told my life was ending today. Portion control went to hell, I probably drank a total of a gallon of water for the week, and cheese? I ate some every single fucking day! AND I LOVED IT!). I also have this unsightly, incredibly itchy, mysterious rash on my arms. I suspect the kitty I'd hang out with in New York to be responsible for it... because that's the only rational answer, since I slept on the floor and that cat would be all over me.
I must be allergic to cats... which makes me sad... because they were supposed to be my companions as I aged into the crazy old lady of the neighborhood. Now what the fuck will I hoard? Chinchillas? Are they hypoallergenic? Let's hope so... because they're the next cuddly bastards I can imagine living with once I get old and fragile in my solitude.

Now to unpack and go back to regular life.
(I came home and saw my stupidass iPod sitting next to the charger. Pissed me off, since I spent all of the vacation music-less. That shit is torture when you have to ride the NY subway... I had to sit there and look catatonic the entire time)

FUCK LOGAN AIRPORT!
SUCK A DICK, BOSTON!

Peanut Butter ALMOND time!

My last day doing the graduation thing at Princeton.
I'm bummed out.
I'm going to miss it.

This last week has been a crazy dream. Sure, I fought A LOT with my parents (mostly Dad. Especially today. He slammed our rental car door--which is blue-- against a parked car--which was white-- right before we headed for the commencement ceremony. I cussed out loud, "Tremendo chingaso le metio!" roughly translated to "Huge fucking hit you did there!" He didn't take too kindly to my vocabulary, and so publicly called me a "Cantinera" aka bartender, which is quite offensive to call a Mexican female), but the time spent was great.
It was a little (more than) overwhelming meeting all these important/ridiculously intelligent people... but they turned out to be some of the kindest humans ever (that's not considering the parents of some of the undergrads. The folks we had to surround ourselves with today were major fucking pricks. Ivy league elitists who probably only got into that school because of all the money they have. "Oh Jason, are you heading back to Yale this weekend?" "Huh?" "Your mother told us you were heading back to Yale come the weekend." "Oh, California? Yeah. I'm going back to California on Thursday." WTF?).
What I most enjoyed was the fact that everyone here-- students, teachers, administrators, janitors, you name it-- referred to my brother as "Rafa." EVERYONE. Not "Raf," "Rafi," or "Ralph," but what our family really calls him: Rafa. It meant a lot to me... and my family.
And the look on my brother's face, it was seriously priceless:

I've never seen him so happy.
He deserves that and MORE.

And the love and support offered to him by his friends and their families was genuine.

Great group of guys!
Too bad only two of them are single, including my brother. Boo!
I liked the one who looks like a future president. That fine, really tall specimen.

I also melted when his friends would know so much about us.
They all told us the same thing: You must be AnoMALIE, the writer/biologist (my brother said whaaa? Awwww!) and you must be D, the little sister. He is always talking about you guys!

I'm really going to miss it here.
Incredible times.

And now, for a bit of comic relief:
I'm going to marry the owner of this loft.
That guy...
As I was rummaging through his fridge, looking for the JIF, I decided to read the labels on all the cans in there.
I bumped into these:

Ok, the Nutella was in the cupboard, not the fridge

And then... once I had toasted my bread, and had spread half with the almond butter, and the other half with the PB (while Nutella IS a gift from the gods, I opted out. Too much sugar, especially these last three days. Brownies galore for me... which I'm going to have to kill myself at the gym for the next month to try and recover from this bullshit), I decided to look for jam.
What did I find?

Seriously... this boy is... really, REALLY scary.
Each time I find these creepy similarities, I have to wonder if someone's playing a joke on me.
This shit can't be real! Jesus Christ!
Ohhh! And when I opened the PB and the almond butter, I was even more creeped out to see he doesn't just dig in to the jar, but he evens it all out.
Me: Oh my god, Mom! This kid's my fucking soulmate!
Mom: You're crazy.
Me: Ah shit... look at this.
(I show her the perfect condition of the used peanut butter and almond butter)
Me: I'd be the fucking barbarian in this relationship. Man! It isn't going to work out
(I then proceed to nearly break his toaster... like the real fucking brute I am. Gosh)

Also, yesterday when I was telling Rafa about the guy dropping by, he made me laugh.
Me: Oh yeah, that kid dropped by. I looked like such a fucking bum.
Rafa: What kid?
Me: The kid whose place we're staying at.
Rafa: Darren's not a KID... freakin' guy's 30. "Kid."
Me: Better for me. I was over here thinking I was cougar-ing shit again.

Goodbye, soulmate... soul-twin... whatever you may be.
...
I don't wanna leave!!!

Lint Remover

While yesterday I was beaming with pride, today was contemplating suicide.
Well, not THAT drastic... but I was sad.
Today was the hooding ceremony

The shadow of a broken spirit.

and while yes, I was proud of my brother and I was cheering like a soccer mom, I also wanted to run out of there while sobbing violently.
These people are so damn smart... SO DAMN SMART. I feel like a huge dumbass and total waste of space.
Goddamn... I wasted my life... I wasted MY BRAIN!

Aside from that feeling of inadequacy, I've also been extremely frustrated.
My dad is such an ogre.
Ok, I'll explain it:
We're renting out my brother's friend's loft. The boy is a PhD student whose on vacation this week, so he rented the place out to us since it's very close to campus.
The guy, very kindly, told us we could use anything in the place, eat anything in the fridge... and just make ourselves at home.
Dad has taken that to a whole new level.
He's rummaging through this kid's fridge and pantry like a motherfucking ravenous bear goes through busy camping grounds. It's an atrocity.
Dad is going around eating Klondike bars like some shirtless hillbilly... strolling around the CARPETED AREA... where he drops chocolate scraps on the floor and doesn't bother to pick them up, so they melt onto the carpet.
It makes me CRINGE!
Dad also doesn't like tea... but what is he craving all of a sudden now that we're in this poor guy's apartment? The guy's tea! And I mean, it's ok to drink some of his tea and everything... but Dad has opened EVERY SINGLE BOX "bear-style." HE RIPS IT APART AND JUST SHOVES IT BACK IN THE CUPBOARD!
He's farting everywhere... and my dad's farts are no joke... NO, SERIOUSLY, they are NO JOKE. A man who has survived colon cancer AND a hemorrhoid operation releases gas that should not be inhaled without the protection of gas masks. He's fucking up this kid's furniture and covers.

I don't know what his problem is... he just refuses to use his brain... I don't know... but I'm really close to suffering a cerebral aneurysm from all this pent up anger and frustration.

Maybe I'm overreacting a bit... although my dad really is acting like a wild animal trapped in a closet.
But I MAY be a little more protective of this kid's belongings because I'm totally in love with him. Ha!
Based on his belongings... this homie is SO my soulmate.
First, his bookshelf:

The key to my heart is in there.

There are more than FIVE books in there that are... they're deal-sealers with me. I'll leave them to your better judgement.
The DVDs in the shelf are also homeruns in my book (if you didn't like "The Lives of Others," I'm sorry, but we CAN'T be friends. If you own the DVD, will you marry me?!).
I was already vibing with this kid when I saw his PhD mug... then I saw the bookshelf and I was smitten... then I saw ONE book... and I was shocked. Totally in love with him:

I'm sorry, but now I HAVE to marry him.

This bro can't be real. He just can't be. There are really men out there like this? Holy shit!

I also checked out his spice rack (ha. Pun-y) and ALL of the spices he owns are like... PERFECT! Nutmeg, cardamom, turmeric, curry, all spice, cinnamon-- ground AND in sticks... I was damn near getting an orgasm each time I pulled out a new little jar.
AND HE HAD FAT-FREE FETA CHEESE in the fridge!
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! YOU CAN'T BE REAL! Have you been reading my blog? Do you have a mic in my room? WHAT'S GOING ON?!
Even his appliances are fantastic. THE UTENSILS AND SPATULAS are perfect, for crying out loud.
He also likes the same tea I like (Celestial "True Blueberry").
We use the same conditioner (And no, he's not gay-- I asked).
And the artwork on his walls... ALL HIS, which he framed...
?!?
And he's Australian.
My Thunder From Down Under guy!!! Ahhhh!


I met him this morning when he dropped by the place to grab a few things he was missing (my money's on condoms and medication, because he quickly went to his bedroom and then bathroom, something that took him two minutes and then he was out) for his trip.
I was seriously debating on whether or not to greet him on bended-knee, ready to pop him the question right then and there. I was home alone... I could have done that... or you know, just raped him.

But no... I only opened the door with a smile, introduced myself, and allowed him to do his two minute thing while I removed the cat-hair (my little companion while in NYC was this funny black and white kitty that liked to play with me) from my clothes with my lint remover.

And no, that last part, I'm not joking. That's how it worked out.
I live in a fucking sitcom, I swear.