Sick orange glow

September.

Oh, that lovely month. 

I've had a bad history with this month... however, something tells me this year it won't be so terrible.

I had intended to update yesterday, and even Tuesday night, since my flight was actually early, and I was back in the city by 11:30pm. However, once home, there were arguments with D... and I just decided to go to bed.

Yesterday there was a ton of housekeeping bullshit to catch up on, as well as getting back to the swing of GymTime. I also had the imbecilic idea of uploading my Chicago/DC photos to FB (procedure I did not finish until earlier today. I didn't take my camera, so I suffered through vacation time with only Mom's weakass cutesy, piece of shit "coolpix" camera, with its shit shutter speed and ultra low mega pixels. HORRIFYING to deal with... especially when I wanted to edit them. A motherfucking nightmare. Fucking Nikon BASURA). I was dead by midnight.

So, updating had to wait until today.

I'm still in that DC mindset, still on their time zone.

I still feel like I can walk outside and enter any random museum to get lost in for hours.

My last day there, I left Rafa's place at 8:30AM. I walked the Mall from the capitol building to the Lincoln Memorial. No one was out, besides a couple of joggers. 

The day was sunny, without a cloud in the sky, but a slight breeze in the air.

It was perfect.

Mom was hurting... but only towards the end.

Really stresses the fact that traveling with someone with a lower health level than yourself is a huge NO NO.

Still, walking with Mom is nice. We're not arguing or anything. Just chit chatting like a mom and daughter... sometimes being silly.

We checked out other outdoor memorials, up until 10AM, when the museums finally opened.

I had the time to hit up two Smithsonian museums (American history and natural history), the national gallery of art's sculpture museum, and finally, per my request, the national portrait gallery.

I was squealing and literally jumping up and down with glee at each one. 

I'd post photos... but right now, the thought of fucking around with photographs makes me want to vomit.

Speaking of vomiting, I'm getting a LITTLE worried.

In this week-long DC trip with Dad, he asked me twice if I was ok. He said I looked sick.

When D picked us up at the airport, she asked me if I was ok. She asked if I ate in DC.

Me: Yeah, dude, I fucking pigged out. I had pho, ice cream, a tons of chocolate cookies for breakfast and dinner... why?

D: You look... like you didn't eat.

When I woke up yesterday, I went ahead and did my daily ritual of weighing myself... and was shocked to see that I had dropped nearly 7 pounds (if we count today, then it IS 7 pounds) in this two week vacation. While in Chicago, D and I calculated our weight GAIN to be around 6 pounds, since we ate cake/pie every.single.day. As well as a shitton of rice and bread... and sushi.

I was supposed to gain weight... but the opposite occurred.

A little scary... but to my defense, I DID have two-hour long heavy-lifting sessions five days that I was in Chicago. Then, in DC I'd walk/jog a minimum of five miles a day (except Saturday, thanks to stupid hurricane Irene)... and I'd do some medicine-ball work as well as kettle bell swings every day (especially when I was locked in the house thanks to that goddamn hurricane).

Still... it's a little alarming to hear other think you look sick.

I knew that fucking orange glow was unhealthy.

Lonely Bachelor

All day today, I've been giving my brother that creepy stare a lot of us give... that stare where you try to attain as much information about the other person as possible, because in a few short hours, you'll be out of each other's sight.
When will I see you again? Will I see you again?
I love you... you fucking asshole.

I won't get to see him tomorrow... well, maybe at six in the morning, when I wake up to shower and get ready for the day's activities (I'm going to be a full-fledged idiot tourist tomorrow... since I have until 4PM to fuck around in the city before I head out to the airport). He works from nine to five... and my flight leaves at 6:45PM... so there won't be time for him to come home and accompany us to the airport.
I've been bummed all day. I was with the folks... and Rafa was working... so I didn't see him too much. Once he did come home, I just... did the staring thing... and I cooked for him, teaching him how to prepare the soup for when I'm gone and he has to resume his life of a lonely bachelor.
Tomato Soup Bien Chingona... and quick.

Solitude is a thing I appreciate... but parting ways with a person I love and admire is never an easy thing. I seem to have it easy when saying goodbye to my folks... and my sister (Jesus, I hope she doesn't hear that. It's not like I don't love her, I REALLY do. I think I've slapped enough kids around to prove that point), but my brother-- not so much. I just feel like my brother's at a much higher risk of never seeing again... you know... of him... dying... so saying goodbye to him always breaks my heart. Always.
He has never admitted it while sober, but I know he feels alone... there have been plenty of drunk dials to attest to that. All you really have to do is observe him... how he'll gravitate to the room someone's at. He'll never willingly choose to be alone (whereas I'm the opposite... and I'll always try and find a way to sneak out of a crowded room to be by myself).
During our time here, he has been curling up into the fetal position as he rests his head on my mom's lap. I won't lie-- I almost cry when I see that. It's... sad to me.
We also cringe whenever anyone drops the "J word"... Juarez. We try to put a brave face on... well, Mom and Dad do... I do my "Fucking Bullshit" stone cold bitch face. My "Oh, really, it's not that bad? How about your fucking kid goes to Juarez instead?" face. I can't help it. It makes me angry. How can anyone feel excited when told you're going to have to take "defensive driving" courses for a week? That's what bro will be doing... I think next week. He has to learn how to fish tail cars...how to escape would-be assassins. Last time I checked this nig wasn't signed up as a secret agent... what kind of bullshit is that?

But I digress... no need to get worked up... aaaand, well, yeah, he's once again serving the country and all that blah-blah-blah patriotic stuff.
What does make me feel better is knowing he makes so many people laugh. He's silly... and it appears all of those who come in contact with him appreciate it (there is ONE prick, ONE, who makes it more than obvious that he can't stand my brother. That uptight motherfucker. I was ready to wring that pricks neck, even if I WAS rocking 5inch killer heels and a button-down dress--STUPIDEST. IDEA. EVER.).

Mi broder.

Blair

Tired, but happy.
Now sad.

It was a good day, but knowing I'm going to leave in a little over a day bums me out.
Leaving annoying-ass Rafa makes me sad.

I met his friend today. The "hottie." His face is... not so much... but his body... Jesus Christ, his body!
And his hands were very soft, softer than mine (with my damn manly calluses from weight lifting made me feel so fucking ashamed when I shook his hand. WAIT! THEY'RE ONLY ROUGH BECAUSE I LIFT... heavy... like a guy...). He also has a voice that is very agreeable to my ears.
Poor guy looked like a lost puppy when we found him waiting about a block away from Rafa's place. It was more than obvious the poor kid had a rough couple of hours. Reminded me of the shit time I had in Paris... it would have rocked had I known someone out there... and I would have definitely broken down into violent sobs the moment I'd see him/her.

Anyway, I'm sleepy after being out all day, catching a nasty tan... the day after the hurricane that turned into a tropical storm (I'm acquiring a strange orange glow... I find it mighty unattractive, actually).

Libros

I'm catching cabin fever, guys.
I'm fucking irritated with this goddamn hurricane.
Rafa had to start streaming some fucking Netflix on his PS3 to keep me from cracking up.
Well... it's not that bad, but even HE got irritated with all the damn hurricane watch bullshit.

I'm further distressed due to the fact that I've had to share the same space with my folks for over 24 hours.
I love my parents and everything... but a girl needs her space, damn it!
Mom keeps snooping around each time I try to get online. She runs in whatever room I try to find privacy and she'll look over my shoulder.
YOU DON'T KNOW THEM!
It isn't until now that I can sit in a room without interruption.
I'm a solitary creature... the moment I'm deprived from a minute of solitude in a period of 24 hours, I'll start snapping at you. Sometimes I just don't want to hear you... or even TALK, so get away from me... please. I've tried the marble statue technique, but Mom seems immune to it. I'll sit there, stoically, not saying a damn word... sometimes not even blinking... just staring into space... thinking about the taste of a juicy Braeburn apple... or enjoying the taste of some delicious dark cherries, chewing the pit clean of any sort of cherry flesh... and Mom will still be rambling on and on.
I try to fade out the sound... but she's the loudest little Mexican lady you'll ever meet. She acts as if she's perpetually in search of her missing toddler at the swap meet.
The only time she'll hush up is the moment she tries talking to me and I'm holding a book. She'll start talking, and I, without lifting my eyes off the pages, will lift my right index finger in the air and move it towards her.
I don't have to say a word. It's my silent "NOT. NOW."

I've finished TWO BOOKS. TWO. In two days.
That is unheard of, my friends. I know I joke a lot about not reading and all that shit, but I do read... but never a book a day. My attention span has never been that long.
Back in my creative writing days, the professor used to "require" we not watch television. That shit rots your brain, inhibits your creativity, according to him. For the most part, I'd follow through with the requirement, I mean, I'd spend the majority of my time at school... or near school, killing myself with those godforsaken labs.
The only show I would watch would be America's Next Top Model... because I can't help myself when it comes to watching catty models fight one another... models are batshit crazy... and highly entertaining.
ANYWAY, the whole no-TV arrangement did work... since I'd crank out 5k words worth of fiction every two weeks... because I'm verbose as fuck.
Now, after graduating and encountering this heavy quarter-life crisis of mine, I'm lucky if I remember the correct spelling of "ellipsis." Television will be my fucking backdrop music to anything and everything. I don't necessarily have to be watching, I just need the noise. Not very "green" of me, but ask me if I give a fuck (actually, I really do).
I'll only read... hmm... what will I read? I read... my name on an envelope from citicards... sometimes I'll skim through my Glamour magazine... a billboard or two on my way to the gym.
SO, this time spent waiting for this goddamn hurricane has made me tune out the television and go back to some hardcore reading.
AND, I've noticed a difference. I think now. Not suicidal shit or self-loathing shit... or even crazy shit. I think.

Will it continue once I go back home? I sure hope so... but I doubt it.
I'll just milk it for all it's worth these next few days... while I'm still confined in this house with my bickering parents and irritable brother.

If I die because of this freak storm...well... let it be known that while I was constantly frustrated with my family, I loved them with all of my heart. And I was proud of all of them. Yes, seriously, I really did love them all... except for that one stupid ogre who works for my dad... that fucking kid is beyond retarded and self-centered. Fuck that kid.
And someone please, please tell the truth when it comes to my eulogy. I was "a grouchy bitch... with some issues she often refused to resolve"... because living in denial is sometimes the only way I know how to handle shit. I was grumpy... and a BEAST whenever suddenly woken from my slumber. Sleeping beauty my fuckin' ass.
(I'm not gonna die... this storm is a fucking hype. Rafa's out partying right now, if that helps explain how serious this situation is. Tomorrow, I get to hang around his "hot" friend for the day, since he'll be stranded in DC for the day due to NYC not running any trains or planes. Needless to say... I'm sort of glad this cunt of a storm is hitting the coast. Yeeeeah boyyyy!--I'm such a fucking predator)

Five inch killers

It's impossible not to get excited in this city.
Yesterday, I didn't have my phone on me, for the most part, but today... today was a different story.
The phone was on me and I was paparazzi-ing shit all day.

Let's start out with how big of an idiot I am.
So, I wake up early because Rafa makes me in charge of talking to the pest control guy.
Me: WAIT! You have rats?!
Rafa: Mice. I have mice. Not me, it's in the building and I saw it once in the cupboard where the gas comes in. It's running loose somewhere in the building.

I feel bad for those who have to pay rent here (five grand a month... lucky for bro, his shit is stipend... or something like that... the government pays for his shit, basically. Hello, budget crisis)... expensive living (and you have grocery shopping. Cost of living in this city's a fucking joke. Expensive as fuck) and you still have to deal with rodents.

Anyway, I ended up waking up at six in the morning... and it felt like the unholiest shit in the world... to be awake at that time.
It's 3 in the morning back home... THREE IN THE MORNING!

Ok, so pest control dude comes, he's a sweet dude, tells me what the deal is with the damn rodents, and I then go on and get ready to head out for Rafa's swearing in at the Department of State.
Now, I was under the impression that Rafa's place of work was nearby... and that we were going to take a taxi down there. As always, I was WRONG.
Rafa had me walking in five inch (brand new) heels... on cobblestone streets... for six blocks.
I was ready to murder him by the time he finally hailed a cab. MURDER, I tell you.
There was mad traffic by the state department (like how I interchange that? I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about) due to a protest and some sort of Iranian celebration (Yo, cousins!). By the time I entered the damn building, I was sweating bullets... my cream-colored dress was a wreck... my hair completely flat, drenched with sweat at the nape of my neck. A DISASTER.
The workers at the State Department were nothing but awesome... I've never met such helpful and kind people before... especially the main secretary, who had the same name as I, and we immediately clicked.
The whole time, Rafa had us walking all over the place. We explored the entire first and second floors of the Harry S.Truman Building. My feet felt as if they were going to break... by the end, I was sliding all over that fucking linoleum like a newborn fawn... luckily, there wasn't too much covered in that shit, since the majority was marble, and I'm used to that surface.
ANYWAY, Rafa then walked us out... and we had to go to another part of the fucking building. I was ready to cry by now... and I was still sweating profusely (he took us to the gift shop--yeh, the state department has a fucking GIFT SHOP-- where I purchased a bath towel--with the official state department seal-- for the sole purpose of wiping my disgusting sweat from my exhausted, overheated body. How's that for classy?), luckily, once I went through security, all was well with the world and I was finally in an air conditioned room, where I could sit my ass down in a pretty, cushioned bucket seat.
Once I sat down and had time to myself, where I didn't have to stand there with my fake smile and greet throngs of families, I took off my heels and assessed the damage to my feet.
Left foot, inner arch was a medium sized blister (I'll spare you the gory photos), right foot had a similar blister on the similar spot as the left foot, but it also had a popped blister on the outer side of my ankle... making sense?
Anyway, the blister was oozing (TMI? Imagine the people who had to look at it!), and I decided to change into my non-matching, black flats. It didn't go with the dress, but ask me if I cared... I had an oozing blister! Fuck looking good!
After the ceremony ended, Rafa decided to show my folks the Lincoln Memorial, since we were so close... and once there (where I terrified a lot of the tourists once they caught a glimpse of my jacked up feet), he decided to walk us through the Vietnam Memorial,the WWII Memorial, the Washington Monument (where I got to see the cracks... it's bad, guys), and we went on to the subway, where we high tailed it to China Town...where we had Pho like the South East family we really are.

Once home... Rafa and I went down to the grocery store... which was a terrible idea... since all these folk are freaking out over the hurricane. The store was PACKED, with people fighting over carts... no bottled water available... lines as long as the isles... a scene from an Armageddon film.
All I wanted was some freaking yogurt... and we stood in line for an hour and a half.

Come on Irene! I'm ready for your bitchass!

Hurricane Rant

So I just saw my weakass attempt at posting the book photograph didn't work (awkward sentence... but who cares?).
I would have tried a little harder if I had access to MY laptop, however, I didn't bring it, so I have to mooch off my brother. I beg for internet time...well... not really beg, because believe it or not, I actually don't miss the internet... or even the TV (I heard "Rivals" ended... the MTV show... I had totally forgotten about it. Now I'm just pissed I missed the last fucking episode after killing my summer watching that shit religiously)... anyway, back to the thought, I have to beg for Rafa's laptop if I want to write anything... that includes posting photos.
If I want anyone to know what the hell I'm up to, I have to resort to my Twitter, but that sometimes fails because I tend to forget to post shit there as well.

ANYWAY, the book I decided to read was "Rant," and so far, I'm quite proud of myself for picking a book that hasn't put me to sleep (truth be told, in Princeton, I fell asleep after three pages of that Love Letters book my soulmate initially impressed me with. Must have been the cynic in me which didn't allow me to continue). I've laughed out loud a few times... which appears to worry Mom, since she sees the cover and thinks "What the HELL are you reading? and how can that POSSIBLY make you laugh?!" She then sees me furrow my brows and can't help herself to ask what I just read. I've also whispered "Ah... fuck that!" once, that caught her attention as well.

Aside from reading, and calming the fuck down from yesterday's excitement, we've started "getting ready" for this stupid hurricane. Bro and I are both in denial, claiming nothing will happen, and refusing to go grocery shopping... even when the store is right next door.
Tomorrow's Rafa's graduation thingamajig. Getting ready for that action is time consuming, more so than the stupid hurricane bullshit.

I'm sort of tired, and I've hogged enough internet time from my busy brother... so... I'll be off for now. 

Not Really Ranting

WOW.
I fucking LOVE DC. It's beautiful out here... you know, before the hurricane hits and all.
My bro lives two or three (I didn't count, I was too busy trying to ignore Dad's naco comments) from the National Mall. I can't even accurately recall how many ridiculously handsome young men I've bumped into in my bro's apartment building ALONE.
It's a motherfucking dream, I tell you. Just not when we bump into each other and I'm rocking a wife beater and running shorts. That's embarrassing... I'm not one of those girls who looks good in that sort of gear.... I look more like a disheveled psychopath... with my panting and all.
I'm stoked to see such smart men tend to be so goddamn handsome. It's a DREAM COME TRUE, damn it!

Broski lives in "the snobby" part of the city, to properly quote him.
Everyone eats healthy (HIGH FIIIIIVE!!), works out (I'm having a motherfucking orgasm here... ok, no, I'm not, but if I were a dog, my tail would be wagging frantically right now), and they all seem to be between the ages of 25 and 35 (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! YESSSSSSSSS!). Just today, Rafa took me on a little run to see the mall at night. I've never been so fucking excited.

I was tired as fuck when I got here... now I'm feeling invincible like I imagine a heroin fiend might feel like after shooting up... or more like a coke fiend.

And now, because we all know how this goes:
I had my DD today, as usual.
What was it?
The fan-fucking-tastic book collection the REAL owner of this loft owns.
The guy has an extraordinary mini library. He even has Jane Austen (Emma, of all books, Mooney! lol).
This guy outdoes my Princeton SoulMate by a long shot. LONG SHOT.... because I even found Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his collection. This guy is a fucking MASTER!
Anyway, as I was browsing the multitude of books and squealing with glee every other book, I saw The Master had a couple of Chuck Palahniuk books.
I went for one I hadn't heard of...

Popular book in this place, based on the wear and tear of the pages

now, it's my buddy for the next week...while I handle this wack-ass storm.
And so... yeah, there you have it, my DD. As always, I don't intentionally seek it, it just finds me... and obviously, I welcome it with a silly smile... like some preteen... 'cause I don't know anyone who won't smile the moment someone mentions their Darcy.