Monday, August 30, 2010

You Don’t Have to be a Bad Guy to Depress Somebody

This is a very adequate sequel to my previous post…

Here’s something you should know about me and my brother: we can’t handle confrontation, for very similar but different reasons.

The similar. We are unable to keep ourselves calm.

The difference.
Him: You’re fucking wrong, you fucking fuck!
Me: You…*cries a bit* I just… *cries a bit more* I just don’t get why you have to be so mean!

Now that you know the facts, let’s jump to the story. Place yourself on the same scenario described on the last entry; the music, alcohol, lame dance and random make-out dude. I’ve already forced my brother to watch me being a drunk slut and he didn’t seem to have a problem with it; rather, he seemed quite proud his little sister’s milkshake could bring all the boys to the yard, only this time, he wasn’t ok about it. To be perfectly honest, this time the random dude wasn’t that random. He was a friend of his girlfriend.

My brother came up to me and in that very serious voice of his told me,
“I don’t want you to talk to that fucker anymore” Take a breath “You don’t have anything to feel bad about, you didn’t do anything wrong; just don’t talk to him”.

Since I’m a firmly supporter of the ‘Bros before hoes’ philosophy I listen to him, but the damage was already done. After that, it was an hour of waiting for my brother and his girlfriend to finish fighting about it; I still don’t know what exactly trigger the fight and who was on my side (if there was someone on my side).

See, we don’t fight with each other, since we don’t know how to; lately we just talk  if we really need to. Things are getting better, but not as fast as I’d wish for. I’m not the one for complaining (who am I kidding? I totally am) but I don’t know a lot of people here, if my brother doesn't talk to me I don’t have much more.

I’m pretty sure I’m quoting a lot of crappy songs here but… I’ve never felt so alone.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Daddy’ll Kill You

Quiet. That’s the way I’d describe the way the trip started. Me and my big brother (along with some friends of his) decided to visit a small beautiful town two hours away from here (it’s called Comillas, if you were wondering). In complete silence, it was just him and I on our way over there;  early 2000’s songs were the only sound that kept us from hearing crickets.

Once we got there and met the rest of the people… Well, let me just tell you this entry was initially about the glory and sanctity of alcohol. A couple of drinks helped me go through being a social retard to the adorable snowflake you know I am; and that was just while we were chilling (ugh… I’m definitely not the kind of girl who says ‘chilling’) on our hotel.

When we hit the town (I should stop with the clichés) my brother started a tequila-shot competition with a friend (you already know they both regretted it the very next day); I, on the other hand, was dancing as if I was actually good at it. Well, I must have been doing something right, since I caught the attention of a group of guys. After dancing for a while with a dude who was young and not bad looking (pretty much my only standards when I’m drunk) he asked me where I was from, when I answered Mexico he became the definition of facepalm. Before I could wonder if this guy was some kind of jerk, he shoved his tongue down my throat.

We made out, and we made out hard. When I came out for air I noticed my brother wasn’t that far away from me; he looked right back, and with a very drunk smile on his face he offered my make-out partner a shot of tequila.

A couple of minutes later I gave ‘my guy’ a quick “Gotta go, see ya!” and left the place right behind my group. One of the girls (who was drunk, of course) asked my brother if he had a problem with what went down just then which he answered “I guess she knows what she’s doing”; the reason why I’m telling you this is not that, is the hilarious answer he got in response from the same girl:

“¡Cuando yo tenía 20 años follaba y mamaba como tu puta madre!”

(“When I was 20 years old, I fucked and sucked like your whorish/fucking mother”)

The third night there… Yeah, I’m not even mentioning the second one because there' are just very few good stories that start with “Once, I was so hangover…”. It started just like the first night, actually, it was pretty much the same, up until the point where I met another guy at the club. This time the place wasn’t so crowded and loud, we got the chance to talk and not make out. After a while I needed to go the bathroom (one of the many wonderful things you can blame alcohol for), when I finished I reunited with my original group. My brother smiled at me and yell:

“What a champion you are!” lift my arm up to the air while he turn to look at his girlfriend “Hey! Took a picture of me with the champ!”

Quiet. That’s the way I’d describe the way the trip ended. On our way back it was, again, just me and my brother in complete silence… No, not really. This time there was this short conversation that lasted for about a minute.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked.
“I’m getting a zip right here” I point to chin “You see?”
“Deep thoughts you have”
“Well… What were you thinking of?”
“That we’ll have to do some research over the internet about the the history and architecture of this town… So we have something to tell mom and dad about”

Friday, August 20, 2010

Don’t Answer if You don’t Feel Like it.

- If you're from Africa Mexico, why are you white?
- Oh my God,
Karen, you can't just ask people why they're white.

(mean girls, 2004)

This is what my life has come to.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Always Showing Columbus Discovering America

My plan was to upload pictures of my trip (I guess it’s not actually a trip) but, you know, plans change.

I should warn you in advance, this video will just be a waste of your time (but that’s pretty much a warning for my entire blog).


Few notes for your amusement:

0:11-0:17. No one told me I forgot a spot on my nose… I don’t really know how long I had that semen-looking fluid on there.

0:35. That’s my  big brother <3

0:42. Just a random kid… He didn’t need a note, didn’t he?

0:44. My blowjob face is glad to meet you.

0:57-1:00. Translation: “That you’re a whore and I can see your bra”. I heard a 12 year old telling that to some friend of hers… I thought it was hilarious.

… Song by Parry Gripp.

Sunday, August 8, 2010


Fact: Getting an Spanish ID is harder than, as a girl, grow a small penis.

I already tried three times. Ok, first time the place wasn’t even open but still counts as a try.

Next try, I was there at 9 in the morning, behind a line of, at least, a hundredth people; it looked as the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows midnight release (or so I heard… Err… Ok, I was totally there). An hour later a police man gave me and the rest of the losers around me, a number and told us to get lost for a while; it wouldn’t be our turn until a couple of hours (charming guy, that one). I was back in time to hear my number; I went something like this:

Mean Old Woman: This is the first time you’re getting an ID?

Me: Yes.

MOW: Where are you from?

Me: Mexico.

MOW: But you have Spanish Nationality?

Me: Yes. Here’s my Spanish Passport.

MOW: That shit is useless (I’m paraphrasing here). I need a Spanish Birth Certificate; they can send it to you via fax, so don’t worry about that. NEXT!


After a very disturbing and embarrassing call to my mommy she agreed to email me everything I may need.

Third Try. I arrived 30 minutes early now, that time there were only 50 people in front of me. After I got my number the same police man told me to get back in about an hour. Here goes a pretty boring story that I’m too lazy to write in details: I had to find a place to print my documents. Nothing was open. I had to trade my number with someone else to give myself more time (so waking up 30 minutes earlier didn’t help at all). I found a place. Blah blah blah. My number was called:

New and Even Meaner Old Woman: What’s this?

Me: Spanish Passport. Family Book. Mexican Birth Certificate. Spanish Birth Certificate.

NEMOW: I don’t need any of this, I just need your Spanish Birth Certificate.

Me: You also need to get laid but whatever (You already know I didn’t say that).

NEMOW: Where’s your Spanish Birth Certificate? WHERE?

Me: Woman, pull yourself together, it’s right there! (There’s also the possibility I just whispered a shy “there”).

NEMOW: Oh, right… We have a problem here. It’s not signed.

Me: It’s a three paged documents, it’s signed on the last page.

NEMOW: It should be signed on the first one.

-Insert here a short “but there it is” “I don’t give a damn it should be here” discussion-

NEMOW: Go to wherever you got this and ask them to sign it on the first page, you filthy whore.

Probably she didn’t insult me, but I wouldn’t know, by that time I already got up and walked away. I hold back the tears; and, when I was outside of the building I finally got the chance to curse them… In Mexican, they deserved a curse they wouldn't understand:

“¡Pinches pendejos! ¡Que no mamen!”

The meaning would be lost in translation, but it’s something along the lines of: Fuck those idiots!


Oh! As a totally unrelated note. I just saw a a 14 year-old girl grab the penis of a 14 year-old boy on the middle of the street. Suddenly, I feel as a stuck up bitch for thinking that my ‘showing-love-to-the-penis’ time was meant to be used on a privet or semi-privet place.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Do They Fly Away by Themselves - go South or Something?

From the moment I knew I was going to spend 9 hours of my life on a plane sitting between two strangers I started picturing who those people could be. Well, you know the kind of nympho I am, actually fantasizing about all kinds of sexy people… I swear, my favorite scenario was the one I sat between a Mexican dude and a Spanish one; you must know exactly what I mean, two of the finest samples of what both countries have to offer: young, hot, funny, and with a very thick accent (ha! you thought I was going to say something else, huh?). Apparently, someone listened to my prays, but just to half of it. I sat between a Mexican and a Spaniard… Around their 50s.


Ok, the Spanish dude had this George Clooney sexy vibe going on… But, whatever.

Nothing major happened other than that. I went to the bathroom, and it said it wasn’t occupied; so, I pushed the door and someone pushed right back. I see now that knowing how to use a lock is a gift given to only a few lucky ones.

My brother drove 5 hours up to Madrid just to pick me up (he’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?). On our way back to Oviedo (city where I’m going to stay until classes start) a fucking pigeon crashed against the windshield. Just like that. I thought that kind of things just happened on horror movies; just there birds have a death wish. There were blood, brains and feathers splattered all over (if you needed help picturing the whole thing).

I’ve been staying on my brothers apartment, and if you read the last part of my ‘Something about me’ section just to your right you would understand how that could be an awesome thing for me.

It isn’t.

He has a girlfriend now.

May I go back to Mexico, now?