Not in DC!

How a fun day goes shitty:

1. Go to a party, only to keep your non-dancing sister company in the corner.

2.Receive text message from airline informing you your flight for tomorrow has been cancelled. 

3. Be made responsible for the lack of dancing.

4. Sit in the corner for 4 hours, watching your non-dancing sister glued to her phone.

5. Being asked repeatedly if you're "the oldest."

I HATE being considered the old, boring, weird sister.

I love dancing. I love laughing. I love listening to stories.

Sadly, I always opt to keep the weirdo, party-pooper company... Only to be blamed for the depressing behavior at the end of the night.

I never win. I fucking never do.

(At least I got 3 free drinks out of it, I guess)

Flight woes, surprised?

So... What was I doing today? Flying out of Chicago to get to DC.

The hours spent at the airport were hell.

One minute we were on time, the next we were delayed... Then cancelled... Then delayed... Our emotions were shot after an hour of these shenanigans.

It's a trip how this bullshit bring people together. My sister and I made friends with three suited men, as we all frantically dialed/texted our loved ones our frustrations.

The airport was silent... the eeriest sensation ever... To sit at the airport on a clear, sunny day, with no flights going anywhere... no engine sounds... Just people blankly staring at screens, confused as fuck.

We were one of the lucky planes, leaving only an hour behind schedule... After getting notified of the flight's cancellation three different times.

I'm now in DC, with my brother and sister... After having stuffed our faces with a variety of different style fries, and beers.

All is well with the world (especially since I'm away from Chicago).

Still prefer the chinchillas...

No, seriously, this fucking cat has been harassing the shit out of me since I got here... And she does it most whenever I try to eat (but will refuse to eat what I'm having... She just wants to make my time a little tougher when it comes to feeding myself).

I think it's the universe telling me it's ok to be a cat lady... That I'm MEANT to be a cat lady.

... Damned cats.

Ps. NO, I did not pose her like that... I was honestly trying to make her get off me, but evidently my tits are just too comfortable. That pervert.

ChicAhhhh here I go again.

So, I'm in Chicago, paying my sister a week-long visit.
Luckily, I'll actually spend the weekend in D.C., celebrating my brother's birthday/farewell party since he heads out to Athens on Monday. Well, I'm bringing my sister with me, so it won't just be me (I say I'm bringing her with me because I paid for her ticket).

I'm a mess.
I got in last night, after a much delayed flight. I was hungry as fuck after not having a single bite to eat in over nine hours. My life sucks after having gone on this "fitness journey." Back in my fucked-up-diet days, I was able to starve myself for days without batting an eye. Nowadays, I'll be ready to stab a bitch if I go longer than four hours without a meal.
Anyway, since it was nearing 10PM when I was finally in my sister's car, we decided to just eat whatever she had at home... since everything closes at 10 in this very fucking stupid city.
We get home. I have to be civil with my sister's roommates, introduce myself and all that hoopla... the entire time trying to keep my intestines from being cunts and growling too loud.
Finally, I eat some old chicken, rice, and asparagus.
Then I meet the house cat. And she loves me. And she's weird... she's a fucking cat. And she feels most attracted to me while I'm trying to shove the fork in my mouth. Cats...
Then we finally go to bed... where Sister and I chat for three hours about everything going on in Vegas. We remember some funny shit... and proceed to have a crazy giggle-attack for about half an hour.
Then I found myself crying in the morning. I was sad as fuck. Those mean, critical voices creeped up on me. I also felt sad looking around my sister's living quarters.
You left us to live... like this?
I was upset at both of us.
Upset at myself for refusing to "grow up" but also pissed at my sister for leaving the very comfortable lifestyle my parents give us, all to live in a shitty ugly city full of mean, inconsiderate folk. Then thinking about how successful my brother is... and then I cry because GOD! I miss that motherfucker and I'm going to miss him even more once he's in Greece.
Then I think of how many more people I'm going to have to introduce myself to in the incoming days and I cry some fucking more.
God damn you, social anxiety. DAMN. YOU.

It's weird... and I'll be the first to admit I'm confused by it all.

I'm not PMSing... I think I'm just tired and hungry... so I'm all fucking emotional and dumb right now. That fucking cat isn't helping.

Why come?

I didn't participate much in the town's festivities while I was in Hometown this last time around.
I've explained the tradition before: it's Spanish in nature. The towns were given patron saints during the Conquista, and for centuries, the towns celebrate the patron's day. Nine days prior to the actual celebration, the town participates in the daily ritual of walking around town at six in the morning, praying the rosary, setting off fireworks at the start of each new... mystery (I think that's what it's called in english. The rosary consists of five "mysteries"... you know, each little batch of 10 Hail Marys, started by a single Lord's Prayer). Then at four in the afternoon they go to a daily mass.

All jazzed up.
Patron saint in the middle like a... king.

This is nine days.

Then the night before the main celebration (the 9th of the month, in my town's case), they have a giant firework's display. Then on the actual day of the celebration, they have more mass, more singing... and more fireworks. The FOLLOWING day, they have a rodeo and huge dance, where they crown a young lady as the "queen of the town."
These three days, while loaded with lots of church activities, are even more loaded with DRINKING. Men are FUCKED. UP. for the entire week... more like ten days.
ANYWAY, the only times I participated in anything were on the 9th (mass at 2PM, and only because it was late enough for me to have some good rest, a nice breakfast, and a shower. Then the fireworks bullshit until 2 in the morning), and Mass on the 10th.
OF CROUSE, I was heavily criticized for this.
"THEN WHAT THE HELL DID YOU COME HERE FOR?!" I'd always hear.
My response was always "Simple: to relax. I come here to relax."

My view returning home form the tiendita aka "mini mart".
How the fuck am I not going to come to a halt and admire this shit?

People don't understand why I enjoy walking around town, admiring the scenery.
They judge me crazy.
Seriously.

Judged for standing in front of my maternal grandparent's home and admiring this...
But, you see... I spent my childhood staring at this same sight...
so many afternoons and nights sitting in that field, just crying my eyes out, completely heartbroken, but out of sight from EVERYONE.
Many rainy nights spent sitting in the porch, listening to Grandpa's scary stories while watching this mountain light up with the lightning.

I try not to be haughty, but after continuos BULLSHIT, I just have to become a bitch.
"I live in Las Vegas... I can party ANY night out there. You know what we don't have out there? GRASS. GREENERY. RAIN. NATURE. What you have in abundance here, we lack over there. What you guys enjoy here for a week, we have in excess over there every single day of the year. I DON'T care to party. I DON'T care to hook up with guys. I want to sit here, with my thoughts, and just enjoy nature. That's it."
It had been a while since Hometown had been peaceful. I hadn't been able to enjoy sitting alone in a desolate place for nearly a decade. When the whole Cartel shit started, there was this indescribable fear in the air... uneasiness... heartbreak. It was the worst case of nerves to think of going to the fucking grocery store, running the chance of getting caught in a shoot-out... and not just a "normal" shoot-out, but one involving rocket-launchers and grenades, like some fucking war-torn country in the middle-east, only worse because the WORLD did NOT give a shit... we DID NOT EXIST as far as they were concerned.
This year, for the first time, I was able to walk alone, chill alone, stand on the road and admire MY TOWN, without having soldiers OR masked gunmen hold me up, pointing assault rifles to my face, asking for information.
I visited Hometown because I wanted to enjoy the solitude... the safe solitude, that I can't find in Vegas.
I did not visit Hometown to be a raging alcoholic, prowling the town in search for dick... to get "dolled up" to seduce the already heavily-intoxicated "men." I didn't care to be on camera, looking like some fucking town celebrity.
I also didn't go to be locked up in church. I do not have the vocation of a nun... I am comfortable seeking the church when my soul is not at rest... I go once a week to get my therapy... but I certainly do not enjoy waking up at dawn to pray the rosary and shoot firecrackers. I'm sure God understands... I'm sure God appreciates the fact that I'm very much a good girl, even if I do enjoy sleeping instead of locking myself up in a church for a week.

It was fun hearing these people judge me for avoiding their activities... it was a nice learning experience.
(To clarify, the ones judging me where the Hometowners who live in the US, not the Hometowners who LIVE in Hometown. They'd just ask me why I go, but would be happy to hear my reply. The relocated Hometowners? Not too happy)

temblorina

Yesterday was one of the roughest days I've had in a long time... I'm talking YEARS.
As soon as I finished typing yesterday's post, my body went haywire.
I began vomiting like a hose, trembling uncontrollably, and went in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. What was worst was the high fever I was running... I was burning up, sweating, but felt so fucking cold.
I was dehydrated as fuck-- my lips dry and white, and I had a throbbing headache.
It was an overall pathetic sight.
I think I'm ok now... I still have a slight headache, and my stomach still hurts whenever I walk (yesterday I couldn't move without it feeling like I was running a scalpel down my internal organs), but in comparison to yesterday, I'm peachy.

According to my genetic testing shit, I have a high pain tolerance. All I could think of last night was "Fuck... if I have a high tolerance for pain, regular folk would probably be dead by now!" that, or just wondering how the fuck people survived at all back in the day (uhhh... then coming to the understanding of why they usually just lived to be like... 40)
I didn't intentionally cry from the pain, I'd just catch tears getting squeezed out of my eyes from all the trembling, honestly.
In hopes of getting my mind off the pain, in my lucid moments (which would last about an hour before I'd once again pass out from the pain) I'd surf Facebook... but I noticed I was being a little too sentimental with everyone, so I went ahead and put that shit away.
What finally got me to calm down? Sleeping. And chicken noodle soup. And my mom sleeping by my side.
Yo, I love my mom... fuck anyone who judges me for that.

So, as far as pain tolerance goes, my best coping mechanisms go as follows:
Least helpful
Internet
writing
television
OG soup
sleep
MOM
Most helpful

So if my tiny mother is the sole reason I got over my nasty, painful day, then I guess that genetic testing shit is pretty money.

parasitos me aman

Best part about acquiring a parasitic infection in your intestines while visiting Hometown? The part where your body's feeling awesome after a very miserable, bedridden four days... and then it's like "Just kidding, LOL!" and sends you back to rolling on the floor with your stomach pressed against the floor.

This sucks.

My first go at Hometown was rad as fuck... no illnesses, no sadness... just some good food, laughs, chill sunbathing, young men crushing on me like a bunch of middle-schoolers... just some overall amazing days, like the good ol' days (even better, since no boys liked me when I was a teen).
This time around? Only two weeks later? I was sick as fuck, only old people to be seen, AND these same old people calling me FAT.
Something's wrong when 18-30 year olds are calling my body bomb, and motherfucking 40-70 year old decrepit motherfuckers are telling me I'm fat... most of which were WOMEN (I came to the conclusion that all men think my body's bomb, and women just want me to be dead). Shit bummed me out for a little bit. I'm not mentally strong enough to handle stupid old lady snide remarks regarding my weight... it's something I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life... fucking bitches (you'd think they looked good, but no, they sure as fuck don't... and I STILL let them get to me).
The crummy vibe situation was further aggravated by the fact that my third day into the vacation I caught some parasite and was rendered useless for four days. I have no clue where it came from, but my money's on the fucking water (see, our house no longer had cold water--that's right COLD water--so we did everything with hot water... this included showering. It was like skinning a fucking pig-- HOT AS FUCK. I'm a chump for heat [remember how I violently slap hot tortillas out of rage when they're too hot and burn my hands? I'm fucking rational like that], so each time I'd have to force myself under the shower head, I'd take a deep breath, only to release it with the shock of the painful water hitting my body. So, there I'd be, under the shower head, mouth wide open, cussing at the water and house).

"Oh, Montezuma's revenge!" you might say. Homies, I WISH I was shitting the whole time! Instead I sat through some horrible stomach spasms that felt like some fucking alien embryo was growing inside me... but no bathroom relief-- no shitting or pissing... just painful movements going on in the GI tract.
This happened to me two years ago, when I had to de-parasite myself... you'd think I'd be better at avoiding it... but no, I'm not.
That shit is weird... you spend a good five days thinking you're a fucking champion, no care in the world about your gut and what you're eating, then suddenly on day six you swear you swallowed a chainsaw that activated once in your intestines. You spend a couple of days praying to your favorite saint, bracing yourself for death, then suddenly the sunny days return... only to again see the return of the unbearable pain after a few functional days. Horrible cycle.

I only mention this now because I'm back to the stomach pains after having spent almost a week feeling great. I'm going on day two now. I was thinking I wasn't going to need the parasite-killing pills I was given last week (I need to take them a week after leaving Mexico to make sure I don't ingest any more parasites after taking the pills)... but no, looks like I do. 

It's either that, or have someone punch me in the gut every half-hour to kill this pain... or you know, just punch me in the face to knock me unconscious.

WHY, MEXICO?! I THOUGHT WE WERE COOL!

I need to quit loving third world countries this much... damn.