It does get better. You never want to believe that it will, because as much as it hurts, it's supposed to hurt. And if it doesn't, you just don't care.

You want that horrible ache in your chest to be gone. But at the same time you never want it to stop hurting.

The stangest things hit me, trigger small fits of tears.
There are still some songs I refuse to even see the names of because reading them makes that ache flare up again.

But it is better. I can talk about her without tearing up. I can walk into that room without imagining the bed where it used to be, the dresser, the nightstand with the little paper with prayers in Spanish.

I still can't look at her apartment building or stand to drive on the street she used to live on.

Maybe in another three years.



I miss you, Abuela. I hope you're happy, wherever you are.

I remember being 5 or 6, 7 even, going to my great aunt's 70th birthday party. Or being 5 or 6 and going to my mom's aunt and uncle's 50th anniversary party. Or being 4 or 5 and going to my mom's cousin's daughter's quinceañera. They were always in these places that were out in the middle of nowhere. They looked like crackhouses from the outside but were perfect for dancing your ass off inside. There was always a huge dance floor with tables off to either side, a kitchen that served as a bar for most of the night then a menudo bar for a couple hours after everyone was good and drunk.

I remember getting hugs and kisses from people I couldn't remember ever meeting. I remember sitting next to my mom with a cup of 7up and a side of cherries. I remember dunking a cherry in, sucking all the taste of the soda off of it, then dunking it back in to do it over again. I remember being entertained with that for a good hour.

I remember going to the bathroom that was always too small with awful florescent lighting, and seeing just how frazzled I looked after dancing for a few hours, watching my mom fix her lipstick, watching other women do the same. I remember dancing with my parents, each with one arm around me, carrying me in between them and the other holding each other's hand.

I remember the smokers going outside every hour or so, all men, and the only woman who would ever join them was the loudest, rudest, gaudiest great aunt, and though even the die hard smokers never once lit up inside, the place always had a haze of smoke. I remember watching my aunt come back from the dance floor and immediately sitting down and fanning herself with a napkin, wishing I could dance enough that I would have to go in search of my own napkin-fan. I remember smelling beer on the breath of those that would lean in to yell something in my ear, over the noise of whatever band or song the DJ might be playing.
I remember dancing until I threw up.

I remember, I was never bored. Tired, yes, frustrated that I wasn't the absolute center of attention, of course, but never bored.



I haven't been to one of those kinds of functions in at least eight years. The great aunt's pass away, the couples do too, money can't be spent on just any party, nobody has the energy to drive out to the middle of nowhere anymore, you run out of shit to celebrate.

Somewhere in there, I lost that childish sense of fun. I stay in whenever possible cuz, god, people suck. I only dance in the dark. Fun now, is smoking a cigarette (or a joint, as the case may be) on the front lawn while staring up at the moon. Fun now, is stealing a beer from the fridge and sipping at it while watching some old-as-dirt show that I never liked, but it's mildly amusing and it's something to do. Fun now, is going to a rock show, and even that has gone from pushing and shoving and getting in the crowd, screaming with the guy next to me, to standing back and really listening to the music, occasionally throwing up a hand sign or two, screaming only when each song ends, in the last few years. I used to do the chicken dance, not caring how much of an idiot I made out of myself, now I point and rant about the people who sway enthusiastically, too drunk to care who's watching.

It seems impossible to believe that in the last ten years, I've changed this much. Because, yes, it's ten years, but it's only ten years. I'm still a child for Christ's sake.
I seems for one, unfathomable, and two completely fucking terrifying, that in a little over 4 months I will be legally considered an adult.



Somewhere in me, there is that child's sense of fun. The dirt floors of some of the venues are vaguely reminiscent of the concrete dance floors in the rundown buildings that were spotted and dirty and could break a bone in three places if you fell on it. The bass lines vibrating in my chest feel like the beat of that one Kumbia Kings song they always played, that I knew all the words to but never bothered to learn the name, that I could feel down to the tips of my fingers. The lights shining on the bands are similar to ones I'd watch and make myself dizzy tracing their patterns as they flashed and wove over the dancers.


I may be taller than I was, I may wear makeup, contacts, I may have the faintest trace of laugh lines, but I'm still a fucking child.

Somewhere in me there is still a 5 year old who just wants to go out onto the dance floor, and dance until she throws up.

Stole a whatchamacallit from patentpending .

Music and such.

I'm sort of rediscovering IKSSE3. I'm feeling the little tugs at my choir nerd heart all over again.


And while on the topic...






A choir nerd's wet dream.

The last 44 seconds still give me chills.

The other day I was having a breakdown. Everything fell apart in my head and I spent the night crying my goddamn eyes out. The next morning I, of course, had a major bitch of a headache, and was still feeling pretty awful.

Sam--->

came inside, ate a little snack and went to stand by the door. I opened the door, he stuck his head out, then turned around and came back in. He did that twice, then I went outside with him and sat on the deck, petting him. I got up, went back inside, and Sam followed. He ate, then walked over to me and stood in front of me. He refused to go outside until I picked him up and cuddled him. He was determined to make me feel better and after I put him down my headache was not even half as bad as it had been just a few minutes before. This is a cat who has decapitated squirrels, just for fun, and scared off big dogs. This is also the same cat that kills birds and brings them to me on Mother's Day.

This morning, Simone--->

and I got up about the same time. It's been raining around here and she HATES water. It took me and my dad to even get her out the door. When we were trying to pull her down the steps from the deck, we got the front paws down, then she sat down on her back paws that were still on the top step and made herself heavy. My dad had to pick her paws up and drag her off the steps. It was the fucking funniest thing I've ever seen. Even after that, she was clinging to my legs and she wouldn't go in to her little gated area in the back. My dad had to actually pick her up and place her inside the gate. My stomach still hurts from laughing.

These weird, crazy, adorkable little creatures are what keep me going.

stolen frompineapplemango






OTTER LOVE!!

Creepers At The Laundromat: No Place Is Safe!


Our washer has been broken for the last few weeks so we've had to go to the Spin Cycle on SoCo. Last night, or rather, this morning, my mom and I decided to go since it was getting to be 2 a.m. and neither of us were all that tired.

We got there, loaded up washers and sat, and waited. (Btw, what is with the change machines that will only take your dollar if it's been ironed beforehand?) For the most part, we were the only ones there. There were a couple of guys that were there when we got there, but left about an hour before we were done. Then there was the lady that works there cleaning the machines and whatnot.

About 20 minutes before our clothes were done drying, this guy came in. He looked nice enough, friendly even. I looked over once, he smiled, and, deciding to be polite, I smiled back. A few minutes later, I felt like someone was staring at me, I looked around and the same guy was looking at me, smiling. I acknowledged him and turned back to the dryers. A few minutes after that, I still felt eyes on me. I quickly glanced around and there he was, staring. Then he started moving closer to us.

I've never folded clothes so fast. I never knew I could fold clothes that fast.


Why?? Why did this pervert feel the need to wash clothes at 3 in the fucking morning? Why at that laundromat? And why did he think it was okay to stare at me?? Shouldn't he be out and about on 6th street? There's a lot more to look at around there.
If you want to be friendly, that's great. One smile is quite enough. If you want to strike up a conversation, try the woman who works there, I'm sure she'd appreciate it, seeing as she's probably been there for a while, not saying much to anyone other than answering ridiculous questions.
Maybe you're just one of those people that stare. Okay, but would you mind NOT staring at me while I fold my underwear?! Thanks.

-Smoked a cigarette in my car laying down. Sam jumped onto the hood of my car and scared the crap out of me. I yelped, dropped the lit cigarette and now have a nice burn on my collarbone that looks like a hickey.

-Instead of adjusting the shower faucet thing, I just about bent over backwards to wash my hair. It wasn't until my lower back started to hurt like a bitch that I realized I could've just repositioned the damn thing.

-Walked into a door frame. When I PMS, I really PMS. I get it all, but the first thing that I notice is I become a total fucking klutz. My depth perception is totally shot, I spill water everywhere whether I'm washing my hands, drinking it, or washing out Simone's water bowl, and I try to avoid glasses and breakables at all costs. Any other day I could walk through my house in my sleep without a problem, today, I walked into the kitchen and damn near dislocated my shoulder.

I haven't had much to rant about lately (cuz, lets face it, that's all I ever do around here) but something was bound to come up sooner or later so, here it goes...

My dad went to Houston today. He came back with a shiny new computer that my uncle set up for him. Not a problem, so long as I don't have to teach him how to use it.
My cousin informed us that another one of our cousins, one of my father's beloved nephews, set up a facebook account for him, and he has pictures of his art, and friends and everything. And hey, he might actually use it!

Cool. But, wait. I made a myspace account for him about a year ago. Where was my excited exclamation? Where was my thank you? Where the hell were the pictures of his artwork that I could put up?

My cousin also set up a website for him. Great. So I wasted my time, not to mention a good $20 on a book about html and css and all that crap, trying to figure out how to create and manage a website. Lets not forget managing mine and his myspace for awhile which was a little difficult considering I had absolutely nothing to work with.

No, no need to thank me. I offered to do all of those things. No apology necessary. Just don't ever ask me to do anything for you again. And please, slap me across the face if I ever offer to help you with something you should, and could, do yourself.

Bastard.

(the other person's name is blacked asterisked out cuz I don't know how they feel about sharing that info--but you know who you are)


Oh fuck it! if you can see it, tell me and i'll fix it.  

I GIVE UP LJ!!  YOU WIN!!!!!!  motherfucker.


 

( NEW AND IMPROVED!!!! unless LJ decides to fuck up again, in which case i will kill the bastard... )

In conclusion, I need to start IMing again