Red Means Go

Bored to Death

2013-05-01T11:37:00.001-04:00

It's Wednesday. There's a possibility I have strep throat. As of yesterday I've been suffering from painful injections of antibiotics to my posterior that are making my butt bruised in purple and blue. I find it hard to swallow the Cuban coffee I can't function without in the mornings and it's making me quite the irritable hag. Lovely.

The weekend went by as all the others are wont to do. There were brunches, mimosas, picture-perfect Miami weather without a cloud in the sky, a rental convertible, milkshakes, and such good food I could die mixed in with a few bars and nightclubs. There was also gentlemen of the attractive kind interested in my whereabouts and my company, along with the realization I am so utterly bored of everything I could cry. Has that ever happened to you? You are somewhere, doing the things that are advertised in movies and glossy magazines as "living the life" and suddenly you look around at the beautiful people around you and the drink in your hand and it's like, What the fuck am I doing here?

I'm guessing this is how incredibly rich people feel at twenty-two or movie stars who take up drugs because they don't know what else to do -*cough, Lindsay Lohan*- but in spite of sounding like an ungrateful bitch I am just sick of all the things. Maybe this is something everyone goes through but nobody talks about as they post their little "life is perfect" pictures on Facebook and cry silently on the inside. Maybe it's just me being too honest but that's an ailment y'all already knew I suffered from so there's no surprise factor there. I can only assume this is a rite of passage into adulthood or something but it's as if nothing piques my interest anymore.

(Except maybe cupcakes and movies about terrorism. Those things are always quite interesting to me.)

I'm not clinically depressed or anything, guys, so no need to worry. You won't find me on the news jumping off a cliff or anything any time soon. It's just a matter of transitions, I guess. Now what it is I am transitioning to is yet to be determined.

In the meantime, there is one thing that makes me deliriously happy and not bored at all, and that's how amazingly well Rebecca is coming along (if you all remember her, that is).

Life is sweet,

Annah

It Couldn't Have Been More Perfect Had I Meticulously Planned This for Months

2013-04-18T10:26:00.000-04:00

As you know oh-so-well, I've lately been attempting to finish up the labor of love I like to call my book. I don't know about you, but sometimes when I'm close to finishing something that I've worked really hard on, I begin to undergo what I like to call a narcissistic existential crisis. It's as if the this thing that's been a part of you for so long is finally leaving and although you know it's for the best, you simply don't want it to. I can no longer say, "I'm writing a book" to people I don't feel like seeing when they ask me what I'm doing on a Saturday night. Nor can I have an excuse for procrastinating on doing the dishes or shaving my legs for weeks on end.

When I finished the cover art the other day and my best friend squealed in delight as she looked at it and said, "It's perfect," I honestly felt like crying (tears of blood).

It's like seeing your child graduate and moving out even if you were really looking forward to being able to walk around the house naked again. I guess what I'm trying to say is, in some way I've been subconsciously avoiding the end, and as it all draws near with only three more chapters to go, I feel like there's something "missing."

"Of course something's missing," my friend tells me over the phone as we discuss weekend plans, "it's the end. The end is missing."

I tell her I've been experiencing some writer's block and that there's this chapter I just cannot finish because it feels like it's not good enough and I have no idea what else to write about.

Her advice? Online dating.

Me: What does online dating have to do with anything?

Carla: Everything. Do you know how much material there is in those websites?

Me: But the dudes in there are mostly weird and stuff, no?

Carla: Exactly my point. Just sign up for a few, chat it up with some guys, and in two weeks you'll have enough juice to make a blender of books.

I apprehensively made my foray into online dating (yet again) last night in the hunt for "book juice." It was almost bedtime and I was just browsing profiles and laughing a little at the guy who wrote, "You are really beautiful and hott and gorgeous you are."

Um... I guess "I are" if makeup is applied adequately and I brush my hair. Anyhow, I was about to go to sleep when I get a notification that I have a message from "CubanBarber." Just from the screen name I already knew this wasn't going to go anywhere, but as I looked at his main picture of him boxing I was all, I know this guy from somewhere. I began to browse through his pics and what am I hit with on the third? This shit:

And you know... it really would not have been a big deal that a guy on a dating website who's twenty-six and a barber and from Miami and who's interests are "my bike, haircuts, casual sex, and my dick" to have a naked picture of himself with a hat over his junk. At the end of the day, I hear girls are into that sort of stuff and 1/10 times it works. What is weird, is that this gentleman, is the same precise gentleman who texted me a picture of his penis on my last post after I declined his breakfast invitations which only leads me to the following things I already mostly knew:

There are no available men in this town and I'll have better luck in Alaska mating with a polar bear.
Thank Lord Jesus I didn't go have pancakes with this psychotic exhibitionist.
Carla was totally right about online dating.

I think I've found the official end. Of everything.

Oh-My-God Enough With the Dick Pics Already!

2013-03-26T16:31:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure if I'm blowing this out of proportion but, I'm sensing a growing trend here with the gentlemen of this age and their overzealous desire to send someone, anyone, pictures of their dicks. Maybe because pictures have become readily available at the touch of a button, or maybe because they actually believe somewhere in their minds that penises are attractive. But really, what the hell, guys?

The other month (I know I'm totally behind on blogging and I'm truly sorry about that) I went out to a bar with my best friend, Britt. A guy approached me and started a conversation. He was an alright looking fella, intelligent in thought and not stingy with the drink buying which always helps when you're a single woman paying bills. We must've chatted for about forty minutes and then parted ways. While I held my conversation with him, Britt played wingwoman by talking to his less-than-attractive friend, who was very persistent in getting her number even though she told him she was married and not interested in any men that were not her husband (a lie, of course).

The next morning when we woke up for brunch Britt was all, “You have to see this.”

Me: What is it?

Britt: The guy from last night sent me a picture of his ding dong.

Me: How do you know it was the guy from last night.

Britt: Because it’s an unknown number and a huge coincidence that I gave my number to a complete stranger to then get this on my phone the morning after.

Me: What did it say?

Britt: Nothing. I just opened up my phone and bam! Dick pic.

Me: Christ. What'd you say to him?

Britt: "Um... Who is this?" And you want to know what his reply was? “Sorry, wrong number.”

It was unsettling to me that morning just how hilarious I found this to be. How do you say “wrong number” after sending something like that to someone you don't know? But I’m guessing the more pressing question is, would it still have been a wrong number had Britt replied with, “Gimme that sausage!”

A few weeks later we went to the Blue Zombie and I confess to having exchanged numbers that evening with one too many fellows I hardly remember speaking to. Before I’d crossed over to the dark side though, I had a convo by the bar with a cute Cuban dude that kept insisting we should “go to breakfast.” Maybe he just really liked pancakes or was a coffee aficionado, but I agreed in my tipsy rage knowing good and well I’d never attempt to see him again. The next morning, Cuban dude texted me to find out if we were going to breakfast. I told him I was tired and had a nail appointment so “maybe tomorrow.” Ten minutes later he asks me to send him a picture, which I promptly ignore and resume my TV marathon. Soon after I receive a picture of him - shirtless - in front of the bathroom mirror.

Nice, I thought, and still ignored his dumb ass.

Eight hours later this animal texts me yet again with, “Guess not." You can guess what I did.

My cell had a barrage of messages the following morning from friends wanting to know about my superbowl plans that evening. I only replied to my nearest and dearest letting them know I hated football and intended to sleep all day, allowing the rest to float in text message limbo. Two days later - because I am OCD - I began to clean up the text message conversations from all the people who’d filled up my phone that Sunday, when I saw an unread message from Cuban dude. When I open, there it is, a picture of his inflated penis, which he was holding proudly like a sword called to battle. Of course I texted Britt to share that this time it’d been my turn to be on the receiving end of this virtual catastrophy.

Me: I just got a dick pic from Cuban dude.

Britt: The guy who wanted to take you to breakfast?

Me: Yes. That douche.

Britt: Had you asked for it?

Me: Um. No.

Britt: Was it big, at least?

Me: It was huge. Disgusting.

Britt: Ha ha. Stop pretending like you didn't want to see it.

Me: I *do not* want to see that. It's not pleasant to look at. Why would anyone think otherwise?

Britt: Well what did he say?

Me: Drumroll please... “Morning wood.”

Britt: Oh God. Forward it to me.

Me: Ew. I deleted it, you creeper.

Britt: You should’ve posted it on your blog.

This is the part where I apologize for not saving the picture to post here but I’m certain that like me, no one wants to see that. I asked my guy friends about this odd behavior and they said it’s a hit or miss situation that happens quite often. “Nine out of ten times it doesn't work*,” one offered sheepishly. “So if you didn’t take the bait, some dumb bitch out there did.”

And so whenever someone else asks me why I'm single, I will direct them to this blog post and accept no further questions about my relationship status ever again.

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*correction to before when I wrote that nine times out of ten it DID work. They wish.

Is This How It's Supposed to Feel?

2013-02-20T12:18:00.002-05:00

Because we’re single and proud, my best friend and I often act as stand-ins for the potential significant others we clearly don’t have (minus the sex). This Valentine’s Day, I decided to be romantic and buy her flowers which I sent to her office with a note declaring my non-lesbian love for her.

Sidenote: I have to take off my hat for men during Valentine’s Day who are trying to get laid or husbands who’ve been bad and have to purchase flowers. $72.00 for a bouquet of roses and carnations?! I hope they came with a stripper.

Anyway, as a gesture to return my sweet display of love, my bestie bought me a full body massage which I happily redeemed this weekend. My masseuse was a rather large girl of about 300 pounds which is awesome because I’m into that sort of thing and figured she’d be strong and meaty in her grip. I entered the tiny room and undressed while Beefy waited for me, quickly getting under the sheet and asking her to come in. I apologized and told her I’d be listening to my i-pod while she did her thing, seeing I hate elevator music and that’s what they were playing at the spa. Beefy said she didn’t care and stood in front of me as I faced down and got ready for my relaxing experience. One minute later she was bent over me rubbing my back while simultaneously massaging my head with her two large breastesses, rubbing them rhythmically against my head and shoulders. I’m not sure if there’s a polite way to say “I’m not enjoying this” or if this is part of her technique, so I remained silent while being attacked by two pounds of flesh on each side of my ears.

Suddenly the bed began to vibrate violently and I initially thought it was part of the treatment, but later realized that every time Beefy had to move around me the table was pushed in the other direction. When it was time to work my legs, Beefy placed the sheet under my panties in the customary fashion, then went on to tuck everything up my butt crack and violently massaged my cheeks like giant balls of ground beef being molded for a meatloaf. I wanted to say something but every time I turned off my i-pod to speak up, I heard her heavy breathing and got scared. Did I mention she poured an entire bottle of baby oil all over my body and hair?

It’s safe to say I will never buy my best friend flowers again, nor go to any spas for massage treatments purchased through Groupon.

And this is why women should never attempt to be romantic.

Mortification Master: Part II

2013-02-14T14:35:00.002-05:00

I’d like to start of this post by saying thank you to everyone that emailed me in regards to Becca these past few days (see last post) and those who donated money and canned food. I do not want to post about her until she is ready to unveil her extreme makeover, which the way things are going, will not be for another month or two. I will say that she is creeping along slowly and she is RAVENOUS at all times, which is a sign of her willingness to live and my willingness to feed her as much as it takes to fatten her beautiful self up. I am happy, albeit lacking a bit of sleep as a result of this added responsibility. Thank you all for being awesome.

Happy Valentine's Day!

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Do you all remember that time I went to the community office bathroom to urinate only to find I had no toilet paper in my stall? Then I went with my underwear down by my ankles to another stall but got caught in the process of crossing by that girl from accounting I don't like? I somehow figured that would be the most embarrassing thing that could happen to me at work but of course, I was wrong.

I’m not sure if this is general office culture but in my office when there’s ever a birthday, we pass around a card stealthily inside a file folder that looks like this and have everyone sign it, wishing the birthday employee the best and blah blah blah.

It’s supposed to be a secret of sorts that everyone is in on, including the person in question, who is expected to act surprised once they get the card and some cake before the end of the day. A few months back, I received a file folder with two birthday cards inside of it. One was for my gay coworker whom I adore and another for my favorite person in the office, Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith is a sixty-something gentleman who says things like, “How are you this fine day, Annah?” and “Good morning, young lady.” He is part of that rare breed of men who are quickly dissipating into a pool of douche bags and boys who think texting is an acceptable form of communication. I quickly signed Angel’s card and then Mr. Smith’s before getting back to work with the following sincere wish (not original card, obviously).

Later on in the day our receptionist swung by my office to inquire if I had had the chance to write in both cards and the following conversation ensued.

Me: Yeah, I signed the birthday cards. Thanks, girl.

Receptionist: You mean you signed Angel’s birthday card and Mr. Smith’s get well card.

Me: They were both birthday cards. They both had balloons in the front.

Receptionist: Yes, they did. But Mr. Smith’s card was a get well card. He’s in the hospital and the card was sent today with some flowers.

Me: Why is he in the hospital?

Receptionist: He had a heart attack.

If you are wondering, Mr. Smith is alive and healthy and back to work in one piece.

(The same cannot be said for my dignity.)

You Know I Never Do This

2013-02-05T19:30:00.003-05:00

Disclaimer: I realize I may be biting off more than I can chew with all this so I have asked a few friends for food donations in this little venture of real love. If you'd like to donate a dollar or two (no more than that please), you can do so via Paypal at jrondon2112@yahoo.com or share with friends who may care to do the same.

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The other day I was drinking Granny's Sweet Tea when I looked under the cap and found this little message that made me smile in spite of its silliness.

This afternoon, my mom called me crying after having rescued what she deemed between snotty sobs "the ugliest dog I've ever seen." I laughed and told her to stop being ridiculous and to just leave it at my place, as we would resolve it like we have with so many other rescue dogs before. I really wasn't prepared to find the following animal in my guest bedroom looking very sad, malnourished beyond words, terrified to her core, and yes, probably a little uglier than most:

After crying in my bathroom so my mom wouldn't see me then washing my face, it dawned on me that this here can be a story of the happiest kind. I decided she out of all beings needs a little sassiness in her life so I named her Rebecca. I do not know if she will make it or if I will find her a forever home once this road has been traveled, but I do know I'll try my very best if the Universe permits me to do just that.

Partly because I don't think I can afford five dogs; but mostly because I believe in the kindness of the human spirit. Because I am certain that for every cruel and miserable soul there's a good one out there to set some balance. Because I believe that actions always speak louder than words. And because puppy love is real to puppies, and to adult dogs and humans too.

I guess I'll make it real then, guys.

One puppy at a time.

The Dinner Tab Debacle of 2013

2013-01-15T18:44:00.004-05:00

Last week, my friend Glenn asked what I’d done the night before via email. “Well, you’re not going to believe what happened,” I started.

“Yes, I am,” he replied. “It’s you.”

I sent the following email to Glenn in an effort to shed light on the previous night’s event. It is important to note that A) I had already been on two dates with my little holiday fling and this had never taken place before. B) He lives in Russia and the possibility I will never see him again is high. C) I am Latin, and sometimes this makes things a little tricky when you're also a feminist. D) My dog had been vomiting all day and I was stressed and then I had to take him to the vet to shell out a few hundred dollars in hopes we could figure out what was wrong with him.

We didn't.

Now for that email:

Glennie Pooh:

So… He changed his flight to be able to see me. That’s one. Two! When I got home, my dog was sick. He’d thrown up all over my bed (5 times), and multiple times on the floor and couch. Blood everywhere. Had to wash everything and dry it. Then clean my room and couch and all the other places he’d vomited. Anyway I had plans to see him around 6:00 p.m. and I had to push it back all the way to 9:30 p.m. He’d already slept over a couple of times before he left on that ten day cruise, so we agreed to go to dinner and then back to my place, then I’d take him to the airport this morning. He’s been between Miami and the cruise and Orlando vacationing here with friends for about a month (fuckin’ rich kids). The point is!

We go to dinner, right? And he’s telling me how they spent like two grand each on the cruise and how he couldn’t believe it and blah blah blah. Dinner’s swell (that word is so ridiculous but yes, I use it), and then it’s time to go home. I’m so tired by this point I cannot even begin to think about having to drive him to the airport the next day before work (mind you, I’m kind of sick, so I’m grumpy as hell). When the bill comes, this CHILD asks me if we can split it. Now… I know you’re an American progressive male and you may think this is ok, but to a Cuban woman of thirty (me), this most certainly isn’t. Especially when he has lots of money and just spent a gazillion dollars partying it up on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic. I told him, “Yes, I did mind,” then I went to the bathroom to do a bit of Woooosaaaaaaaaaaaah breathing exercises because I felt like slapping his beautiful porcelain face.

I came back with a little pasted-on smile and he paid for dinner and we left. Then… I promptly drove on, but instead of to my house, I dropped him back off at his hotel. This poor child was freaking out. Like, “Oh my God why are you being like this and I’m so sorry and this isn’t such a big deal and in my country people do this all the time and yada yada.” I’m all, “Please just take your bags out of my car,” to which he refuses because he’s so flustered as he’s trying to get me to accept his apology. So in the middle of this wind storm I packed all his bags out while my dress is blowing in the wind and my underwear is probably showing and was all, “It was nice to meet you,” leaving him there at his hotel door.

On the upside, at least my poor animal hasn’t thrown up anymore. $360 dollars worth of vet bills later… I get home and I have about ten messages from this kid apologizing and it got me thinking… Did I overreact? Because in spite of everything, I don’t think I did.

Glenn’s Reply:

A few things…

1. This is why I never want to have fucking animals!

2. I didn't know you two already had a.... "relationship" before last night’s date.

3. You are correct that as an American male, as a progressive male, as a FEMINIST male, I do not believe in the man treating the woman to dinner as a default option. However, I am also a class warrior and if he has a lot of discretionary income he's spending and he's on vacation, it's not unreasonable to think he is going to pay. SECOND HOWEVER, you, as a modern woman (Cuban or not) should have laid this out to him if it was such a big deal.

4. Was it an overreaction? Who the fuck cares! You don't know this guy. You will (probably) never see him again. AND he's a twenty-two year old child while you are a GROWN ass woman.

5. You’re going to be single forever.

Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. (Also Know As, I Am Thirty.)

2012-12-12T10:54:00.005-05:00

A friend once told me life is an inevitable rollercoaster of highs and lows mastered only by those who manipulate the lows as gracefully as they embrace the highs.

Something about milestones…

Yesterday, I found this picture of me celebrating my 5th birthday as I looked at old photographs my aunt gave me the last time I went to Cuba. In it there’s a young girl with a mischievous smile standing behind a cake decorated with swans. She wears a girlie dress full of ruffles in shades of pink and yellow and blue. A bruise on the side of her face incurred from a fall down the stairs is being hidden from the camera. You also miss the hole on the cake where she stuck her fingers and quickly shoved them in her mouth as her grandma scolded her for being a glutton. Her mom is on the other side of the camera next to the photographer, looking horrified and praying that things turn out alright for her clumsy baby.

The girl is thirty today, and although she’s not as fond of swans or pink as she used to be, she’s still quite familiar with falling and picking herself back up. Bruises aren’t always obtained from stairs but the marks they leave no longer make her cry hysterically nor last very long. She will make mistakes and apologize to no one. Her mom will be horrified and resort to praying. If she’s lucky she’ll blow many more candles and release wishes of the best kind to the universe. After that she’ll stick her fingers in cake and rejoice in the rush of sugary sweetness that is sometimes life. It will taste exactly like she planned and the next day she'll go on a diet and curse her tendency to over-indulge. Highs and lows will go hand in hand. Embracing and manipulating will as well. She wouldn't have it any other way.

She wouldn't have it any other way...

But Alas, I'm Not That Kind of Girl.

2012-11-29T20:25:00.002-05:00

I'm guessing when you live in a city where casual encounters are the norm, the odds of meeting someone without a hidden agenda are like winning the Powerball on an unsuspecting Wednesday night.

Enter him.

You hear men of his kind only exist in Cary Grant movies and Johnnie Walker commercials, yet there you are anyway having a conversation about the Middle East once he's bought you and your friend a round of drinks. He wants to know more about you, what kind of work do you do and the things that ignite you. He listens attentively to your friend and tells the bartender to "bring her whatever she likes." It doesn't go unnoticed he's attractive and wearing a watch that cost more than your car and furniture put together. You find him intriguing and surprisingly funny despite the fact he's probably closer to your father's age than your own. You've never dated a man much older than you and truth be told, you've no intentions of starting now. You exchange numbers as a courtesy, wondering what life would taste like in a world where money isn't a subject of worry.

Over the next few days he rings you up and leaves funny messages. You answer on one occasion and have a light conversation about your favorite foods and why you refuse to eat duck or veal. He sends you flowers to work and you're relieved to find it's an art form not yet extinct. You eventually stop answering his calls and figure he'll soon get the hint, knowing you probably passed up your only opportunity at an elite gold digging experience.

On a Wednesday he calls and you answer by mistake, feelings of guilt washing over you as soon as you hear him smile on the other end of the line. He invites you to dinner at a restaurant where soup is thirty dollars and movie stars go to be photographed pushing their food around their plates. You toy with the idea for a nanosecond but respectfully decline, offering that you twisted your ankle at the gym. He doesn't believe you but says he understands and hopes you feel better.

When the line goes dead you know he will call and he knows you won't answer. The rat race will continue and you'll probably never get to try a bowl of lobster bisque that goes for thirty dollars. Later he will find a girl whom he'll take to fancy dinners and whisk away to Greece for the summer. You sit there quietly, stretching your perfectly okay ankles on your second-hand couch. Eventually you get up and convince yourself to go on a powerwalk. On the way home you stop by the convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket with a can of lobster bisque. You don't end up winning the lottery that night... Yet your soup, just like life, is fucking amazing.

... And This Is Why I Need to Leave Facebook.

2012-11-07T16:29:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you are human and you're bored and you fall prey to the jaws of Facebook in an effort to kill time. It is in these trying occasions that people you hardly know message you in an effort to also kill time (by getting in your pants).

I wouldn't usually throw people under the bus like this but it was really too weird *not* to share.

Then I went ahead and blocked Ismel and Albernay and his imaginary girlfriend too, but not before saving all this since no one would believe me if I ever tried to explain it to them over dinner (in an effort to kill time).

Well... It's Almost That Time Again.

2012-10-25T12:51:00.000-04:00

The election is less than two weeks away and although I will not get into it on this platform, I am slaving a lot more than usual these days because well, I work in politics now and this is what grown-ups do (against their will, of course).

While I accrue a few more gray hairs, I attempt to chip away at my book and have some semblance of a social life. When I haven't been doing the aforementioned, I've been:

Enjoying this city of plasticity called Miami on nights such as this one.

Rescuing this beautiful animal who is burned in a few places from lying on hot sidewalks and honestly just melts my heart to puddles of extreme happiness.

Updating my vintage nails which I am obsessed with more than the average girl (as you probably already know).

Finding a little trouble with Justin who was here from Houston in an attempt to escape reality for a while.

Wearing dresses that didn't fit before and taking some self-pictures just in case I gain all the weight back during a bout of stress-induced binging.

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It's the nature of the beast, I guess... The weather here is changing, which in truth means it's about three degrees cooler than last month and the rain comes more often. Turning thirty in less than two months so I've been more reflective than usual but in a good sort of way.

I stole all the above pictures from my Instagram because I've yet to replace my camera and would rather spend $200 on champagne if I had that kind of money to begin with. If you ever wonder on my whereabouts or if I am indeed alive, look for me there (@annahrondon).

Until next week, kids. Be bad on Halloween and don't eat too much candy.

Blob Blog: Part XI

2012-10-16T11:39:00.002-04:00

I think one of the biggest misconceptions I was under when I started this whole weight loss thing back in June (of last year) was that I was going to lose seventy pounds in two months and slip right into a size six and be positively merry. Those people that said being fit is a lifelong commitment and eating healthy isn't a fad but more of a life style? Fuck 'em.

Maybe I'd been reading too many trashy magazines.

Or maybe I was delusional to the point of checking into rehab (for fat people). The truth remains that weight loss is such an uphill battle and even though I can totally gain ten pounds in a weekend from a Krispy Kreme driven binge, getting rid of them is a completely different story.

I must confess that in spite of my deep rooted hatred for anything gym related I've become quite the exercise enthusiast. I must also bring up that once you hit the streets (not like that, guys) or the gym or anything that makes you work up a sweat, your ability to eat more without gaining ten thousand pounds increases. This happens to be good news for people like me who truly love food.

Like.

A lot.

Which brings me to the following: Chipotle is ruining my life.

I thought I was past giving into cravings but then they went ahead and built not one, but two of these evil establishments near my place and I cannot seem to stay away from them. I no longer do groceries. I Chipotle. Chipotle is a verb. A very dangerous one.

I always hear people say "Oh, sweets are my weakness" or "I can't seem to stay away from Cheetos." Me?... I have no weaknesses. I have a stomach. A stomach that wants food and doesn't discriminate nor comprehend how people cannot be tempted while passing burritos on the way to work. I am beginning to think that I need horse blinders every time I go out in public to stay focused on the task at hand. Do you think those will look weird on a date?

I guess not all is lost though and I do see some sort of a truce beginning to happen between my mind, body, and stomach. They have agreed to move forward with this plan as long as they get to indulge once in a while in the things that make them happy and the almighty goal is reached by my 30th birthday (12.12.12). Here I am now:

And well... I think there's hope.

I Am Seriously The Worst At Being A Human Being But Way Closer to Being a Cat Than Most People.

2012-10-10T20:21:00.002-04:00

I'm not even going to say how fucking crazy work is. Or how this post will probably take me like five hours to type as a result of my lunacy. I have resolved to blog once a week so that's good news, right?

Today is my friend Janet's birthday and I tried to find a birthday card for her in my house after leaving work late and cleaning some vomit I spotted on the living room floor but instead just found like fifty Christmas cards.

On that note, at least I got her some kick ass earrings that I stuffed inside the card once this whole thing was over because really who the fuck wraps gifts anymore and I sort of hope she's not reading this because I'm late to her party.

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I was sitting in my office last week when my co-worker Glenn walks in and casually says, "Dude, when are you doing your nails? You look like a little boy."

So maybe it's true that once political season started I chopped off my nails because typing is really hard and being beautiful is painful and seriously not pragmatic so I said Fuck that noise and I'm going to sport these tiny little nails until the election!

Yesterday I sent Glenn a message that I figured would make him happy.

Me: What do you think of the cat nail trend? (picture attached)

Him: Horrifying.

Me: Really? I think it's kinda sexy. I'm getting it tonight.

Him: We said not until the election. You can't type with those shits. It's called cat nails because THEY ARE NOT HUMAN.

Me: Meaow? :::: In a dejected kitty sort of way ::::: You suck.

Him: Just think after the election you can get your cat nails and this too:
http://classymishmash.blogspot.com/2008/09/cat-man-man-who-underwent-surgery-to.html

Today I texted him.

I'd like to point out that although not practical, my cat nails are great for clawing someone's face off whenever I'm PMS'ing and drinking Monster energy drink. Also for scraping dried dog poop off the floor when you run out of plastic knives but I'm not speaking from personal experience or anything.

Holy Shitballs, Serial Stalker!

2012-10-01T15:22:00.002-04:00

While on vacation in Houston, Olivia met a super hottie named Tony the night before going back home. Some time around five in the morning a group of us went back to the hotel to continue the debauchery somewhere in our room or lobby or wherever they allowed noise and the unlimited flowage of vodkaseltzers.

I'd met a guy that night who wasn’t too excited about taking Olivia and this strange dude in his car, but finally agreed after some coaxing on my part, also known as purring-in-his-ear-and-empty-promises-of-great-things-to-come. When we finally stuffed ourselves in Jason’s Charger, seven of us were on the way to continue the fiesta. Upon arriving to the Westin, Olivia simply told Tony that it was great to meet him and kissed him on the cheek. She then proceeded to get out of the car and leave us all there with our mouths wide open as we wondered, What the fuck are we supposed to do with this fool now?

After Jason dropped off Tony at a friend’s house and returned to us, the virtual stalking commenced. Before reading the following, you should note that:

Olivia had just met Tony that very night.
We have no idea what “hhh” means but have deduced it’s “ha ha ha” or “lol?”
You have to read this in a middle eastern accent because Tony is from Israel and his English not so good.
Olivia is really glad she didn't give him her name on "the Facebook."

After she finally got Verizon to block his calls, Olivia was in the middle of downloading an app for blocking texts when she received this very last message from Tony.

"Ohhhhhh Gooooohhhhddd."

And huf, Tony. Those are my sentiments exactly. Hhh.

Houston, Rock It.

2012-09-27T00:08:00.003-04:00

Disclaimer: For the purposes of not getting anyone in trouble or tarnishing their reputation, ________ could be a number of people and not necessarily the same person.

Disclaimer Part II: I know that from reading this it may seem like we upgraded from one roach motel to another, but we actually stayed somewhere really beautiful the second time around. Really it's only that rich people do more drugs than us normal folk. Something about entitlement, I hear... Or easier access.

-------

I’ve been to Houston on more than one occasion on layovers and never once considered it could be a city I’d fall head-over-heels for. When __________ asked me to join her in this little excursion to meet her Twitter love, I figured What the heck.

From my experience I think Houston is the upscale cousin of Dallas. With hotter guys and better food.

(There are beautiful girls there too if you’re a male of the non-homosexual persuasion interested in a little fun).

As much as I attempt to condense vacations into posts I never end up doing the experience justice so I’ve somehow given up on that and succumbed to just pictures. After all, I'm really just a blogger and this ain't the mufuhckin Travel Channel.

I did mention previously that I lost my camera to an intoxicated photographic incident involving a bird, but with the help of i-pads and camera phones we captured bits and pieces of what was one of the best extended weekends in the history of debauchery.

Here's a preview of what went down in no particular order:

I chose not to get car rental insurance.
I crashed the Impala on the first night.
__________ insisted on painting my eyebrows like "the models do it."
I looked like Frida Kahlo (see below).
I killed my six month celibacy with a kind and sweet young man.
I think there were fireworks and white doves involved in the act.
He was twenty-two.
________ did the same except she wasn't celibate.
He was ~~nineteen~~ twenty-one.
I bought a red dress my mom would never approve of.
I immediately regretted it but ________ made me wear it anyway.
We ate like Star Jones before gastric bypass.
__________ made out with a gay guy she simply thought was "confused."
He was wearing a glitter shirt.
We mistakenly picked a roach motel on the outer skirts of town where crack deals take place.
Their shower/toilet/opium vending machine didn't work.
We changed hotels the day after.
Our neighbors in the new hotel smoked weed everyday.
Everytime the air conditioning turned on our room smelled like a rap video.
We threw a party with some vodka and strangers.
We got security called on us.
They smelled our neighbors' marijuana.
We almost got arrested.
Had way too much pumpkin beer.
___________ couldn't make it to the toilet and peed on hotel stairs.
They were carpeted.
We almost got arrested.
I made friends with a serial stalker (more on this later).
Everyone fornicated with men under twenty-five.
No one got arrested.

Wings and waffles = Purrrrrfection.

Texas can party, guys. And at the expense of sounding like a total cheeseball if there's anything other than incredible memories gained from these getaways, it's the invaluable gift of perspective.

Perspective that there's a world out there for the taking. Perspective so many people are yet to be met who will inevitably change who you are. Perspective that once you go past discovering, your world will never be the same. Perspective that my bank account will be empty for three weeks. And perspective that yup, it was all fucking worth it.

Bucket Me This: Part III

2012-09-25T13:44:00.003-04:00

I'm back from Houston and I cannot even begin to explain the craziness that took place in the span of four days in the state where everything's bigger without taking a nap first.

I broke my camera trying to get a picture of a pigeon while intoxicated but I do have some photographic evidence that I was there. Come to think of it, the pictures are of me and friends being weird and drinking and laying on railroad tracks so really that could be anywhere but I promise you, it wasn't. While I get my shit together and sleep it off for a day or two, I wanted to update you on my bucket list (the one that I was supposed to fulfill before the end of ~~the world~~ 2012 but most likely will finish by mid-2027).

I fulfilled item #6 like three months ago but now's when I'm getting around to revealing my awesomeness. Rescuing those in need -whether a dog, cat, homeless person, or chupacabra- is vital to my feeling alive. So maybe it's because at the rate I'm going it'll only be me and my 23 animals at the end of this journey but hey, fuck it.

PROGRESS REPORT

Shoot a gun.
~~Get a tattoo.~~
Take Portuguese classes.
Skydive.
~~Get a massage by a professional (preferably in a spa).~~
~~Rescue & find homes for 100 stray dogs.~~
Learn to bake a cheesecake from scratch.
Go on a hot air balloon ride.
Return to my high school weight (hahahahaha).
Go sailing.
Buy a pair of Christian Louboutin heels (do knock offs count?)
Go on safari.

Extra credit: Make passionate steamy love to my teenage crush, Josh Hartnett.

Woof woof, baby.

Yeehaw, Bitches.

2012-09-20T10:37:00.003-04:00

My homie Ryan says that all you have to do in order to add emphasis to anything you're trying to articulate in life is to add the word "bitches" right after.

"I just quit my job, bitches!"

"I lost ten pounds, bitches." (I wish).

"I'm breaking up with you, bitches!" <-- Maybe that one doesn't quite work because it kind of sounds like I'm some sort of lesbian polygamist but you get my drift.

-------

My friend Britt says to me the other day, "Why aren't you writing anymore?"

Me: What do you mean?

Britt: You used to write about stupid shit all the time and it was funny and interesting. Now it's like, one post every six months when you have something philosophical to say. You're like, overthinking it, dude.
Me: I don't know. :::::Sad face:::::: I think I lost my mojo.

Britt: Don't give me that shit. I see you every day and your mojo is intact. Just fucking write! About anything. About how you picked your booger in a political meeting. About how you missed Bill Clinton's speech because you got your period in the parking lot and had to run to a bathroom. About how you haven't had sex in six months and wet dreams are as common as brushing your hair.
Me: So you mean, just write?

Britt: Yeah. Just write.

Me: Ok. I can do that. Just write!

------

Here's a picture of my feet.

I was sitting on my couch this morning waiting for my mother to take me to the airport and figured, what better time to "just write" than now?

So I bought those shoes online which I rarely ever do and regretted it as soon as I tried them on. They're made by Beyonce's House of Dereon and it was sort of lust at first sight when I laid eyes upon them that fateful Thursday. I thought, I could so wear a pair of shoes that high and look fierce like Beyonce.

Um. No.

It's like walking a rope on stilts while under the influence of horse tranquilizers.

This post is kind of all over the place and so........ My friend met a guy on Twitter a few months back and suddenly decided she wanted to see him up-close-and-personal (brilliant idea, I assure you). The dude lives in Houston and I thought it would be fun to tag along and drink margaritas while she and Twitterati boinked for the extended weekend. It turns out Twitterati has a girlfriend who lives with him and my friend's plans have gone to the shitter but seeing we already booked our hotel and plane tickets, off to Houston it is.

I don't really know much about H-Town, per se... Only that there's honky tonk bars and lots of Asian people. I like country. And I also like Asians and BBQ food. So there's that.

If you happen to have any suggestions about Houston or live there and want to drink with me, leave me a comment. I haven't had intercourse in almost six months so in an effort to "just write" and be honest I'm kind of hoping some lost soul feels sorry for me and wants to fornicate.

This of course doesn't apply to people who read my blog. That would be hell'a weird.

Back next week, bitches.

I Live.

2012-09-12T13:03:00.001-04:00

Ay, you guys. I don't even know what to say... I realize I've taken a bit longer than expected to publish the second half of the chapter but with a dreadful bout of insomnia that's taken over my nights and a shit ton of work and a hurricane that kept me locked indoors for three days and way too much ZzzQuil, I've been nothing short of a hot mess.

It's okay to give up on me (I totally deserve it).

If you haven't or won't though, here's the second half of what I started a month ago (if you didn't catch the first part, click here).

-------

The Age of Annah-Sense (Part II)

My sudden distaste for his lunches did not go unnoticed. My father and I walked home in silence one Friday afternoon when he finally raised his concern. “Annah, what exactly is the situation with you not eating your food lately?”

I was caught off guard. “Nada, Papa. I’m just tired of pork, I guess.”

He suddenly stopped walking and pulled my hand firmly. “Let me make it very clear that some kids would kill for your lunch,” he said in a tone rarely used in our household. “Don't forget where you live.”

That evening he took me out to dinner for a treat at his favorite restaurant. I recall that night as if it were yesterday, the rough napkin scratching my legs as the waitress recited the menu by heart. The cool breeze on the outdoor patio overlooking the park and a sky filled with stars. The boredom I felt while anxiously sipping lemonade as my dad listened attentively to his dining choices. The drool practically coming out of my ears by the time he finally made one.

“We’ll have the chicken fricassee with white rice and beans,” he finally said. “And Maria, could you bring some of that house habanero please?”

“What’s house habanero?” I asked once the waitress left.

“It’s a very spicy sauce they make here but you're way too young to try. Maybe after your quinces."

I opened my mouth to argue but suddenly Maria was back with a plate of ham croquettes and I forgot all about habaneros and spicy sauce and guys with a penchant for stupid girls.

-------

While Johnny romanced Dumb Dumb, he had the audacity to pretend we were still best of friends. I in turn, pretended I didn't want to gouge his eyes out with my tiny love sick hands in a dark corner of a classroom. As we played besties and Johnny resumed eating my sandwiches every afternoon, an uncontrollable hunger began to grow within me: the literal type. Fucker was eating my lunch and I was no longer interested in winning him over. In fact, poisoning him seemed the only viable option to regain my confidence in life.

Eventually I started taking my lunches in the girls' bathroom and resolved to forget about boys altogether. My father was delighted to see I'd resumed loving his food and one day over dinner couldn’t resist indulging me. "I’m going to let you try a little bit of Casa Grande’s sauce with your chicken. But just a tinge, Annah. Es muy picante."

Oh-my-God what was that? I could feel the wheels turning in my head as I took that first bite of habanero douced chicken. Hahahahahahahahaha.

After dinner, I pleaded with my father to make me a pulled pork sandwich for school with just a little bit of the hot sauce and cheese. I forlornly looked at the meal he was so carefully preparing for me and weeped a little internally at the thought of not eating it. I stayed in the kitchen pretending to sip my cafe con leche as I spied on my father. The habanero sauce was placed right next to the mayo in the fridge.

I awoke at my usual time of four to use the bathroom, making a detour to the kitchen and drenching the insides of my pork sandwich with habanero while everyone slept. I went back to bed and guiltily plotted, wondering if maybe I should just dispose of the sandwich in the morning along with my plans of wicked revenge. It really wasn't a big deal, I thought, then immediately fell asleep.

Classes dragged by at a snail rate the following morning, the clock on top of the board resembling an hour glass whose sand had stopped running. When the bell finally tolled at noon, I braced myself for my very first devious move in the name of love. Johnny and Dumb Dumb sat by side-by-side at their usual corner, laughing at something one of our classmates was saying.

“Hola, Johnny,” I faked a smile and waved a little at them both.

“Anita…” He let his voice trail off. “How are you?”

I looked over at Dumb Dumb searching for signs of impatience or hatred, but she just sat there smiling up at me, her perfect blonde curls bobbing in unison as she nodded for no particular reason. I once again considered backing out, but then that meant coming up with another reason why I was standing there.

"Want to trade lunches with me today?” I finally said while turning to him. “I’m kind of craving some rice and beans.”

He shot me a perplexed look and shrugged his shoulders. “Sure,” he pushed his plate in my direction and stretched out his hand. I promptly placed the sandwich in it and stood there like a creepster. When he realized I wasn’t going anywhere, he opened the sandwich and took a greedy bite.

I couldn’t help but revel in the sweet satisfaction of my triumph ahead of time. “Her dad makes the best food,” he said to Dumb Dumb in between mouthfuls. I waited for hell to be unleashed but he bit the thing again without even blinking, his face showing no signs of discomfort. And yet, was that his nose wrinkling?

"Yummy, right?” I asked with fake interest in the boiled egg I’d just stuck a fork in.

“Delicioso,” he mustered while slowly reaching for a bottle of milk, his fair complexion reddening ever-so-slightly. I saw Dumb Dumb reach for the sandwich and thought how lucky I’d be if I killed two birds with one stone. Whether from pride or fear of Dumb Dumb choking half to death, Johnny finished his sandwich in three bites and feigned satisfaction. “That was great, Anita.”

But I knew better.

My vengeance carried out, I pretended to wave at someone across the courtyard and bid my farewells. I sat down with a friend and enjoyed my plate of revenge served bland by Johnny’s mother. It never tasted as sweet.

-------

I sat in class two hours later reading a Jose Marti poem aloud when I saw Johnny’s hand shoot up out of the corner of my eye. Knowing good and well Ms. Lopez would not allow for an interruption during poetry, I continued my interpretation of A Sincere Man I Am. As I paused at the end of a stanza, my teacher nodded approvingly, Johnny’s hand still up and ignored still the more. My poetic rendition was interrupted without warning by a loud noise that could not be confused for anything other than a shart.

Oh, Johnny.

Despite my wishes to disappear, tearing my eyes from the scene unfolding before me was like not eating cake after a bout of strict dieting. Johnny’s hand went down as all eyes focused on him. His ears a tomato scarlet that gave away what just transpired. “Excuse me,” he whispered at no one in particular as he shuffled towards the door and a ghastly smell followed him. I heard the girl next to me gasp and someone snicker in the front.

“Johnny…” Ms. Lopez began, then quickly decided against it.

I looked up to find his uniform shorts wet on the right side, the same leg smeared in poop that slowly trailed down to his sock. The overwhelming need to help him clean up took hold of me, impossible as it all was. After going to where I presumed was the bathroom, Johnny never returned to class. Nor did he the next day or for the remainder of the week. When he finally showed face six days later (yes, I counted), his eyes were perpetually glued to the floor, Dumb Dumb his only loyal companion.

-------

My imaginary romance with “Yohnee” ended that fateful afternoon of ill-timed sharting and pesky bowel movements. Much to my dismay the whole fiasco only deepened his bond with she whom I'll no longer mention. I developed new crushes that year and each subsequent one after, but I never shared my food with anyone else nor did I ever exact revenge on guys who did me wrong. I figured that if someone took the time to hurt me on purpose I'd better stay put and let the universe do its thing.

(I also held back the urge to slash their tires in the middle of the night, as they'd surely die in a car accident or something as a result of my childish fury).

My parents and I eventually moved to the United States and started a new chapter of our lives away from Castro and boiled eggs. I stayed abreast of all the town gossip via telegrams from my grandma and letters that left Cuba in January to reach my hands in May. Johnny married his beloved right after high school and moved to a city close to Havana soon after. Last I heard they had two daughters and a boy on the way they would naturally call Johnny (or Carlos).

I guess some forces in life one really cannot contend with. At the end of it all I couldn't keep those two apart with all the sandwiches in the world.

Johnny and Dumb Dumb ended up with each other.

I ended up with habanero sauce.

True love always finds a way and in my case, it's that of the eternal kind.

As Promised.

2012-08-16T18:49:00.001-04:00

As a result of Pluto's passing and the perpetual state of madness that's taken over work for the last few weeks, my inability to write has been heavily compromised.

"I sent you the the report on what you ask yesterday night. Did you receive itt?" <--This is a real-life sentence in an email I sent to my boss yesterday.

While this shit storm subsides, I decided to post the first chapter of my book for your viewing pleasure. Seeing that it's a whole chapter I'm dividing it into a couple of posts so it doesn't drag major ass. You can stop reading whenever you like. You can also opine that it sucks. Just please don't tell me because in my mind it's fabulous and shall sell millions upon millions of copies.

The book, which I've aptly titled Heartbreak for Dinner, is a collection of real life stories centering around doomed romances. That doesn't sound very grand except when I fail, I fail with a bang. Granted things become a bit weirder and more x-rated as the book progresses, but I won't publish that here for fear you'll never buy my book.

Anywho... Enjoy.

The Age of Annah-Sense

I keep hearing of this stage in a girl’s life where she’s completely and utterly repulsed by members of the opposite sex. Cooties, they call it, as I listen in bewildered silence and wonder What the fuck is wrong with these people? Clearly I’ve never been afflicted by such an abomination, yet I wonder if cooties have some sort of positive weight on the outcome of our romantic endeavors once we're rid of them.

As I verge thirty and the prospects of finding "The One" become less and less plausible, I begin to question where things went wrong. Did I watch too many episodes of Sex & The City thinking Mr. Big would drop from the sky in the middle of yoga? Or are cooties a rite of passage one must experience in order to find their true soul mate?

I contemplate the many times my heart’s been broken and start to think maybe I’m developing adult cooties, the kind where men have driven me so far from the jaws of hope I begin to consider dating women. I circle back to all those failed attempts at true love and as I hone in on where it all began, it inevitably leads back to him. We all have one relationship that sets a precedent for everything following the wretched road I call dating. The day I set eyes on his dimpled smile and jet black hair I knew he was different, my heart beating me into another stratosphere as I mulled over ways to get his attention.

Johnny was the sort of boy destined to break hearts straight out of the womb. Despite living in a country where most guys are born to be Carlos or Ricardo, my beloved’s mom decided to name him after her uncle’s favorite singer, Johnny Cash. My parents named me after the main character in a Russian book so obviously we were meant to be. For Cuban children, finding a mate becomes a competitive sport one must partake in early, as it’s probable you’ll end up marrying your pre-K sweetheart before you turn twenty. With this in mind, I felt it was my duty to secure my future with Johnny early on. I mean, it's never too early to work on true love and age ain't nuthin' but a number.

Or something like that.

---

Standing out in a sea of 1st graders is a challenging feat, especially when the uniform you’re forced to rock every day looks like this:

I gathered as much confidence as a tall and chubby six-year-old with 80’s hair could gather. In the grand scheme of things, I was pretty friggin’ adorable.

Operation Johnny Cash was in full-fledged force two weeks into the school year. Staring at him in class became my full time job, as did failing all my quizzes on Castro and his revolution but that’s another story altogether. One day while singing the national anthem our eyes locked. He looked away rather quickly and kept on singing, but not before smiling that dimpled smile of his. I took this as my cue to proceed to the next step of my conquering plan. That day during recess I spied from afar as he took out a container with rice, beans, and two boiled eggs. The next day I noticed his lunch was exactly the same. I triumphantly grabbed my pork sandwich and sauntered over his way before I could chicken out.

“Hola,” I said. “Do you want to trade lunches with me?” I had intended to sound nonchalant but my question came out fast and high-pitched, making me sound positively psychotic.

He looked up and said nothing.

“Boiled eggs are my favorite,” I continued, waving my sandwich in his face and hoping for the best as my confidence quickly waned.

“Boiled eggs are disgusting,” he sighed, accepting my trade after a moment’s hesitation. “Gracias.”

I took the seat next to him and we ate in silence. It was clear his mother wasn’t a fan of salt and pepper nor any other seasoning, but what else could be expected from a Cuban who didn’t name her son Carlos. When Johnny finished eating his sandwich he turned to me and asked for my name. “Annah,” I smiled and tugged on my short lesbian hair.

“Anita,” he said. “I’m Yohnee.”

After that encounter we became inseparable, meals during recess becoming my beacon of hope. Some forces in life one cannot contend with, and no mightier force exists than a woman on a mission. Every day I traded lunches with him in hopes of getting closer, my father’s culinary delights unworthy opponents to his mom’s bland offerings. I slowly found myself making headway in the demolition of his shy barrier, each afternoon becoming sweeter in my quest for his affection.

I was almost there. Almost. Until the devil in a skirt arrived.

In retrospect one would understand, yet in my innocent youth I couldn’t grasp why he suddenly lost interest in me and became enamored with that blonde midget who joined us in the middle of the year. From the moment Dumb Dumb arrived what never began was over. My efforts to gain his attention once more were futile and it gradually became evident no sandwich in the world could save me. My once chubby frame became increasingly thinner over the course of a few weeks, my thighs no longer rubbing together under my uniform skirt.

Pluto.

2012-08-12T15:55:00.004-04:00

"Well what kind do you want?" His blue eyes reflected an impatience he wouldn't reveal to me just yet.

"I don't know, babe. They're all so cute," I stared at the timid faces behind the cages and thought how depressed dog shelters made me. "I just know he's gotta be big. And hairy."

"Well that sounds promising," he snickered and kissed my forehead. "Come this way, your highness. A doggie awaits."

As if a premonition struck him there it was, too big for his cage and barking loudly at me in excitement. His brown eyes sparkled as I put my hand near his face through the cracks, slobbery kisses my reward for being brave. I knew at that precise moment looking further would yield nothing of value. He was my chosen one. After half an hour of paperwork I was the proud owner of a yellow labrador named Pluto. My mom sounded half amused on the phone when I told her I was bringing him home. "I really don't care as long as he's not huge, okay?"

He weighed a hundred pounds.

The attendant explained the hurdles and obstacles of adopting an animal, reassuring me it was okay if we returned him. "You're the fourth family to adopt him," she sighed. "He's a bit of a project, this one." The warning signs flashed brightly before my eyes but like any woman in love, I was already in too deep.

It seems like yesterday I was nineteen and frolicking about the lake with him, chasing ducks and playing with his squeaky toy. Hard to believe a decade came and went with this being always faithfully by our sides.

When the doctor tried to explain himself it felt like he was speaking a language I'd never been taught. "Cancer?" I asked. "But he's never been sick a day in his life," I protested.

As I stood there in the rain Friday night and watched my friends bury him in our backyard, I was overcome with emotion at the fragility of life. How the things that really matter are revealed in an instant when we lose someone we love dearly, and how nothing can replace them once they are gone for good.

The hole you've left in our universe is impossible to fill, Big Guy, for you were and always will be our ninth planet. Please send us a sign they serve skirt steaks on Sundays in heaven.

Until then... We love you.

Because I Wasn't Feeling Depressed Enough As Is...

2012-08-03T14:01:00.000-04:00

Our intern is leaving us for the real world and I'm kinda bummed about it like the sappy pants that I am.

Someone bring me some tissue (and/or a knife).

Bring It, Bitches.

2012-07-31T20:55:00.001-04:00

My pendulum of emotion's been swinging so wildly lately you'd think I was bipolar or something.

(I'm not, by the way).

Overwhelming sense of joy.

Sheer confusion during training in New York last week.

Spending time with Olivia while up there.

A flight back home so turbulent I resigned myself to death and five bottles of mini wine.

A weekend trip to Tampa with my coworkers in a bus with no air conditioning.

(We became close).

Bumping into a wall and almost breaking my nose after one too many chardonnays.

All in all I'm alive. Twelve hour workdays and stress that induces hair loss be damned.

On a brighter note I finished one more chapter of my book, which leaves me only three away from a completed product. If time constraints continue to be a damper on my blogging existence I think I'll publish the first chapter for your reading pleasure and hope for the best.

For now my one and only hope is a bed... And for my nose to heal quickly so I can be kind of pretty again.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

2012-07-19T21:58:00.001-04:00

This is what happens when you're praying so hard for a promotion and then it actually happens and you have no room for anything in life except politics and reports and vodka and politics. Did I mention politics?

Me: I've been neglecting everything lately except my liver and the gym. I want to read something. A classic!

My roommate, DJ: I have a classic.

Me: Oh yeah? What is it?

DJ: Wuthering Heights!

She runs to her room and brings this back:

Me: You've *got* to be fucking kidding me.

DJ: But it's their favorite book, dude. Who doesn't love Twilight?

So I'm out of it for a few months and Edward & Bella become book critics. The world's turn upside down in more ways than I thought, it seems.

And then I killed myself and became a vampire.

Update: I am not dead. And here's the picture of my short hair you requested to prove it.

Come to think of it... I am looking a little sparkly and pale these days.

Why Yes... I Do Write a Blog. So Glad You Asked.

2012-07-10T23:23:00.000-04:00

Remember those days when I used to blog three to four times a week and always had something awesome and interesting to say? Me neither.

Seems that all work and no play makes Annah a very dull girl and lately, it’s been all about the work. Sure there's been some play in between but nothing to write home about or anything.

I mean let’s be honest. How many times can I blog about partying and cupcakes without driving you guys for the hills? That and there’s nothing monumental like attempting to make out with homeless men or getting caught masturbating in public that’s happened recently so what’s the point in boring you with mundane Miami nights you've already experienced one too many times. Let’s just bring you up to speed on what has taken place around here lately and pretend my hiatus never happened, shall we?

I cut my hair. I know. Shocking. Apparently short hair and Miami weather don’t exactly go together so most of the time I look like this.

I went on a cruise to the Bahamas. Really wish I could say I had the time of my life, but eating a burger and contracting food poisoning the very first night of your voyage only to end up in the clinic and getting quarantined to your cabin for the remainder of your trip doesn’t quite constitute fun. They did let me out for a few hours on the last day and I got to take a picture that proves I was there.

I'd love to write about how difficult it is surviving three days inside of a room that’s the size of a high school locker but every time I think about it I want to throw up (and Lord knows I’ve done enough of that already).

Speaking of high school, I got to see the First Lady speak at mine today. I felt seventeen again as I stood there in a sea of people on the verge of an anxiety attack while I waited for this magnificent glamazon to come and grace us with her presence. She most certainly did so three hours into the cores of our very tested patience, but boy was she worth it. Eloquent, hot, and with guns that put Mayweather to shame.

I’ve somehow managed to land myself back into celibacy mode. This time it isn’t self imposed but more like, accidental. Does that even exist? You kind of wake up one day and reject sexual suitors one after another and three months later realize you’re close to being one of those re-born virgins they talk about on television. Kind of weird but circle of life or something, I guess.

While I was away it seems lots of people came across that post I wrote about the phrase “long hair, don’t care.” Many of them found it imperative to notify me my explanation of said phrase was incorrect, and that it really was Lil’ Wayne rapping about not caring whether a woman shaves her nether regions. See below.

I frankly think my version is funnier and more people can relate to it so the post is here to stay. 'Sides it's not like everyone here eats vagina or is a fan of pubic hair so in this case long hair DO care and please shave your privates.

Thank you. And please come again.

30's the new 20. And 29 the new 92.

2012-06-26T17:00:00.002-04:00

Between The Heat winning the finals on Thursday and some massive consumption of beer with overly-enthusiastic-about-sports friends,

An LMFAO concert with my best friends on Friday,

Followed by an orgasmic visit to Pinchoman, also known as the best street meat vendor ever,

(That's me with street meat sauce on my cheek and my Holy shit this is amazing face as I scarf down one of various hot dogs).

Followed by a day of drinking and preparing for my housewarming which was absolutely epic,

(My roommate and I moonlight as vampires when we're bored.)

I think I crossed over to the dark side.

A little after midnight struck on Saturday, I went to my room and thought to myself, I'm going to sit here for oooone second. Only to wake up at eight the next morning in my dress and heels, holding a drink in my hand and having missed half my party. Apparently a few of the eighty drunks that showed up put money together to pay the DJ and kept the soiree going without me (bastards).

Not sure if it's signs of the age but... I simply can't hang like I used to. This little fact has been keeping me up at night for the past two days.

Am I... Old?

I really wish I had more time to ponder on that but I'm leaving to the Bahamas with ten people soon and the show must go on. Let's just hope I don't fall asleep in the pool and wake up dead.

Well if you're dead you can't really wake up.

Fuck.

It's like I don't even know anything anymore.

Red Means Go

Bored to Death

It Couldn't Have Been More Perfect Had I Meticulously Planned This for Months

Oh-My-God Enough With the Dick Pics Already!

Is This How It's Supposed to Feel?

Mortification Master: Part II

You Know I *Never* Do This

The Dinner Tab Debacle of 2013

Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. (Also Know As, I Am Thirty.)

But Alas, I'm Not That Kind of Girl.

... And This Is Why I Need to Leave Facebook.

Well... It's Almost That Time Again.

Blob Blog: Part XI

I Am Seriously The Worst At Being A Human Being But Way Closer to Being a Cat Than Most People.

Holy Shitballs, Serial Stalker!

Houston, Rock It.

Bucket Me This: Part III

Yeehaw, Bitches.

I Live.

As Promised.

Pluto.

Because I Wasn't Feeling Depressed Enough As Is...

Bring It, Bitches.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It.

Why Yes... I *Do* Write a Blog. So Glad You Asked.

30's the new 20. And 29 the new 92.

You Know I Never Do This

Why Yes... I Do Write a Blog. So Glad You Asked.