Mouse tries to shoot Cupid

© MMM/PAZ 2014

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Maybe I didn’t say that right.

Yeah, it didn’t come out right. I think I meant to say, “FUCK YEAH CUPID!”

So I’m sorry Cupid. Sorry.

I just…uugh… old habits die hard. You know? Listen. Listen, I never hated you, really. I just grew up bitter about the whole thing, you know? Being “in love” is really weird. It’s weird like I’m having an out of body experience, like I’m having one of those dereealization moments continually. Yeah, those who have postraumatic stress know derealization well enough.

See, I never liked Valentine’s Day and, well, today is that so-called day. BLEEEUUUUGH. AT LEAST in Colombia, my birthplace, we call this day El Día del Amor y la Amistad (Day of Love and Friendship) and we celebrate it sometime in September… I think. That’s more fitting to my taste and beliefs and whatnot.

Anyway, shit I don’t mean to get off course. See, I’m not sure if you had anything to do with it or not Sir Cupid, but either way, this “falling in love” thing is actually happening. It happened with Monkey Man, but that was chaotic–falling in and out and in and out all while wanting to blow my brains out.

****

I rejected it. THIS. BEING. “IN LOVE.”  I rejected it so much and nearly sabotaged any possibility of giving “love” a chance when it came around the corner last August.

I did.

But… I was in therapy! I AM in therapy. And shit does that help.

Fuck Valentines! Happy Day of Love and Friendship everyone.

And HAPPY FULL MOON! I love you. So so high, so full and yellow and bright…

Mouse Love

Sinterklaas reblogged

December 23, 2012

I’ve been a terrible, lazy blogger as of late. I know. I haven’t even been reading from my favorite bloggies. Truth is, a lot is going on and I do want to share much of it, but I don’t know… Thankfully, I dont have a head full of PLDs (Pretty Little Demons) right now. I still feel better than I was several months ago, despite some terrible days these past two weeks.

I haven’t self-harmed in several weeks, almost two months I think–the last time being a burning incident triggered by booze and thoughts of Monkey Man. So anyway, that’s great that I haven’t! No major suicidal ideations either!

A lot is happening. And well, I want to blog some of it–MUCH of it– but for now, I’m rethinking this whole blog. (yeah, again). And thus, I’ll continue being lazy about it, at least until this White Baby Jesus thing is over with. So here is another one of my very first posts from last year. I was trying to develop my illustration style then (and still am). But here I actually sketched on the computer before it gave up on me in May. Anyway, I think this is a funny one and I hope you think so too.

Hope you all the best!

~Mouse love

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p.s. I just realized this isn’t the best post to re-blog considering the horror that happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. Being a kid is tough and I can’t even imagine… I got severely triggered by that–I’m talking trigger among triggers– it was bad. And I can only hope those kids who survived and their families/loved ones heal one day. It’s… ugh… I’ll shut up… Please don’t take offence. None was meant. This story is meant mostly to be lighthearted, albeit true and somewhat sad. It’s gotta be at least a little melancholic: I’m the MMM.

Melancholically Manic Mouse

There’s always that one elementary school teacher you hear about somewhere, the one that murders her students and their wild but fragile imaginations by telling them Santa is a hoax; that his slaved sweatshop elves and reindeer are also a hoax, AND, that they should go home and shame their parents. I read about such story not too long ago. I can’t blame her. Sometimes the scrooge and Grinch in us comes out.

I’m reminded about the time I tried to tell my third-grade classmates about Santa’s non-existence. It didn’t go so well, obviously.

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Firstly, I’m Colombian. And Colombians–at least when I was a kid in the late eighties–don’t celebrate Christmas with Santa Clause. People do put him on Christmas trees, little figurines are sold for decoration, you can hear his bells in shopping plazas, but he’s treated more as an uninvited guest, the bawdy drunken relative–distant relative–you let…

View original post 1,407 more words

I thought I’d missed the mark. I really did.

“Fuck’a’doodle doo P!” Mouse yelled in my head, “You fuckin’ forgot your Bloggers for Movember post!”

“I didn’t forget Mouse! Ugh. I just had a lot of shit going on. What with the immigration, the surgery, the–”

“LIAR!”

I had nothing to say, no comeback.

****

I thought I’d grown my Movember mustache for nothing (see my mustache here).

I was so happy I’d finally managed a decent ‘stache, one that could rival Jen’s wispy whiskers–my arch enemies. Then I nearly cried realizing all the fun and games of Movember are over. All of the contestants had gone home with their prizes.

****

Then, last night, something MAGICAL happened. Mr. Penis’n’Balls–who I’d never met before–came to me in the middle of the night and whispered in Mouse’s ear: “MsMousie! Wake up! Mousie! You can still blog for Movember. Balls and I would appreciate it so much. I mean, $1200 or more or something like that have been raised for prostate cancer awareness and care. Spread the word. You got TWO MORE DAYS!”

“Holy shitballs! I do have TWO WHOLE DAYS to blog for Movember Mr. Penis’n’Balls!”

So I woke up, did a bunch of stuff like swimming only I couldn’t ’cause the pool was closed so I lifted three pound weights instead and, I fell in the bathtub, thought I’d broken all my bones, thank heavens I didn’t. So no broken bones and I think, “Right! I still haven’t written for Movember like Penis’n’Balls asked”

That’s when I realized I’d have to rush a post. So all I’m gonna say is, I think all of you Movember bloggers are awesome, especially these guys: Bloggers for Movember – A Final RecapFor the Love of Your Healthy Prostate, and Rockin’ it for Movember.

What is Movember anyway?!

For those of you still unfamiliar with this, it “is a moustache growing charity event held during November each year that raises funds and awareness for prostate and testicular cancer.”

That’s about all I know, so don’t ask me more questions.

Look, women tend to get it in the breasts, men tend to get it down below. I know for sure my dad had to get tested after he started having trouble down there in his older years. He’s clear fortunately, but his grandpa and my grandpa as well as many men aren’t.

Prostate cancer grows in the prostate gland, just between the urethra, seminal vesicle, rectum and anus. It’s literally a PAIN IN THE ASS TO HAVE, and it is a pain that kills.

I would draw a mouse sketch of a prostate for you, but I’m late enough to the party as it is. So I gots nothing to bring except a Google search of pictures of prostates (no hairy balls this time, I promise).

So hats down to those Movember bloggers, particularly those I’ve mentioned. And LE CLOWN for being a champion of the cause!

For more info visit

Movember.com

There’s still time to donate and help out! At least I think there is. Is there?

TWO DAYS YALL!

If not, at least take a look at your balls to make sure they’re okay and enjoy the the Mouse. I worked VERY hard on those sketches (not really, kinda though).

Mouse love

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ALL SKETCHES ARE CopyRighted by PAZ 2012

Biometrics Are IN!

November 27, 2012

BOOYAH!

They are in!

My fuckin’ FABULOUS finger prints are in! My hand prints, finger prints and a picture of my geeky face in a blue long-sleeve, corduroy, polo-style shirt have been submitted into the gubernatorial vortex.

WHEW! It. Is. Done.

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I haven’t been updating much on the immigration situation because my focus was on getting stable enough to function and get all the paperwork in. In case you’re new and are just now reading, I am an immigrant, an undocumented immigrant to say the very least. I’ve lived in Texas since I was five years old, roughly twenty-two years, but who’s counting right? *cough*

Back in June, President Obama made a sly move to get a head start in the 2012 elections–he signed an executive order for DACA (deferred action for childhood arrivals) meaning that, a) undocumented aka “illegal” immigrants who came to the U.S. prior to the age of sixteen would be deferred/protected by law from deportation proceedings and, b) they would, by discretionary case, receive a work permit so they (I) can work legally in the United States.

I currently cannot work “legally”. It is a difficult situation to be in as I mentioned in my posts “P Is in SHOCK! UTTER FUCKIN’ SHOCK!” and “P Is in SHOCK! UTTER FUCKIN’ SHOCK! …. But then remembers…”

Most of my friends and acquaintances who are in the same boat either work as waiters, house keepers (like my mother did), janitors (like my father did), construction or farm worker etc.–all jobs I cannot do in a wheelchair. My only options, out of desperation, were to try and freelance. But being mental and having severe anxiety on top of transportation issues makes freelancing extremely difficult. Besides, I needed more discipline.

Since I graduated college in May of 2011, my freelance jobs have added to nearly nothing. I tried websites like e-lance and all this other shit I can’t remember. I spend hours on those sites, touching up my resumé, putting up samples of my work, only to find that at the end of the process, I was always asked for a Social Security number which I obviously do not have.

It became another brick added to the weight of the depression that eventually knocked me down in May. But then, alas, June came with the news of Obama’s signature. I’m not an Obamacrat, I’ll tell you straight up. I’m with the rebel alliance and Jedi nights, not the empire. Besides, Obama had promised several activist groups (some of which I was part of) that he would sign this YEARS ago, but as a true politician, he did not until this election year.

Anywho, I’m not goin’ into my political or social ideals in detail since that is not the focus of my blog. I established at least that from the beginningWhat I do want to share is MY STORY.

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In mid-October I received such wonderful birthday presents!

I got some stretchy pants from my mama, a poem from Angel; I got to see Fiona Apple LIVE with my bro who bought the tickets last-minute; I got a beautiful painting of Mermaid P mailed to moi from Le Sailor–LOOK HERE and I got the DACA application completed and mailed out. That to me was a wonderful gift. They all were.

In April, just before my suck-ass and shameful death attempt, when I thought I couldn’t fall further into depression, I got hooked up with a “job” and felt excitement followed by failure crushing me with the culmination of the second day of work, the day I got fired. I was only an intern, hence the legalities not being clear up and therefore they were not strict in mu application. That’s why I wasn’t asked for my SSI number. Plus, Mansie practically got me that job, a job that only lasted two days.

****

Sixty days after Obama’s June executive order, the DACA law went into effect. To cut my rambling a little short, I have had a long process applying for DACA since September, but I finally had my biometrics appointment today!

The biometrics proceeding is basically when USCIS, the Immigration and Citizenship Services department calls you in to take a photo of you, mark your fingerprints and so on, you know, Big Brother type shit . The dude who fingerprinted me was wearing blue latex gloves like he was about to give me an enema. I ranted on my MsMouse Facebook as follows (note the terrible grammar ’cause I was on a not-so-smartphone that kept auto-correcting me in my agitated state):

My rant for today: It’s so hard having to depend on my dad for SO much! I’m grateful that he’s here, but he’s extremely overbearing and has become more stubborn with age (he’s nearly 70). The biometrics appointment went well even though my dad and I got into an arguedment on the way to the US immigration dept office. It went super fast. Yaaaay!

But fuck anyone who thinks I, or anyone like me should be deported. Twenty two ducking years for this and I’ll still as a non-legal resident, only in immigrant with DACA and work permit. At least ill have that thought. And I can’t wait to finally have a job and a little more freedom! Wooohoo.Fuck you govt for playing with our lives! For controlling my live like a piece in a board game!End rant.

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And that is that! I’m on my way to being more of an adult. I feel as though my entire life I haven’t been given room to grow, to spread out and show my inner beauty. This is why I feel so child-like. It’s not a “bad” thing to be child-like, but what I mean is, I’ve always felt restricted like a child. I’ve felt things that should be entitled to me weren’t. I’m an angry little mouse on a tiny, albeit heavy, leash and the cheese is only a foot away. (Godamn I love cheese!)
****
Hopefully in a month’s time, I’ll be receiving a social security number along with my work permit! Nope guys, no green card or “legal status” yet. I’ll still technically be an “illegal,” only an “illegal” who can work “legally” (I prefer undocumented).
And ain’t that an oxymoron? That’s politics for ya…
Here’s a little sketch I did on my not-so-smart-smartphone that my bro’s sweet girlfriend gave me before my surgery!
Anyone know of any good and cheap/free sketching apps for Andriod? This one isn’t too great. But I like that you can’t be precise; it makes me less perfectionistic  less critical and quicker. heheh. The scribble at the right surrounding the MsMouse is supposed to say “ILLEGAL”. Try and figure out which part of the tail is the letter G and/or A.
Mouse love

ILLEGAL MsMouse
2012 (c) paz
I am still undocumented aka “illegal”

Edit 5:53pm 11.22.2011:

This is my introduction to the blogosphere.

There are a total of what, twenty billion blogs out there? Twenty eight trillion maybe, to be sure? And most of these are far from being hot, hardly lukewarm. And the world doesn’t need any more lukewarm bloggers popping out like malnourished crack babies. I’ve never really even enjoyed being lukewarm and though I’ve never been a malnourished, lukewarm crack baby, I imagine I wouldn’t enjoy that either. But to you, and often times to me, it doesn’t really matter what I do or don’t enjoy.

Phew.

So I begin my blogging journey. I begin by wondering if I may as well continue writing like a madman—lost to the world in my nonsensical, ranting and raving–battering my poor, hapless notebooks.

A part of me rebels though. I get tired of that lonely rambling. I get tired of putting it aside as hogwash.

****

I want this to have a clear purpose, a focus. And I think what better focus than to share my whacked-out thoughts on the WORLD WIDE WEB!

THE WORLD NEEDS TO KNOW THESE WACKY THOUGHTS!

Plus, I can stick my timid, mutant turtle neck out just a little from under the shell of anonymity. It would be good for my crawling self-esteem.

But the true motivator here is the fear that I’m at a breaking point again. And maybe I have something of value to share? If not, then at least I’ll be writing again.

Now that I finally decided to open this account, my self talk went a little like this:

“Well, it’s done. You’re signed in now. What hell are you going to make this about? Yourself? Fuck no. There’s lots of shit in this world you wanna talk about. No? Well, what do you think to get out of it? What’s the point in it? To fuel your narcissism, yes? Come on, you know you want to. You know you do. No really though, I don’t. Yeah really though. Are you really that self-absorbed, you punk ass? Yes. Yes I am”

****

Most writers find an intimate experience in the process of laying words to rest–to rest in the world, the solitude, the page– all transmitting and transcending the inner being to the unknown, endless landscape that is this universe, the mind, the infinite particles of thought.

But the truth is, despite this intimacy, I suspect most people who write also have a deep need to speak and be heard; that somewhere deep down (even if they refuse to admit it) they want to drag people into their world. They too are narcissistic. In kinder words though, people who enjoy writing want to share that intimate experience with others.

****

“Maybe I’ll really enjoy it”, I thought. And since I’m in desperate need of an unchained creative outlet (seriously, this blog may become my only outlet for maintaining sanity) I figured, “Eh fuck it, I’ma do this shit! I’m gonna write to my heart’s content“.

The dilemma is, I’m a very private person. Any kind of personal exposure is terrifying for me, even with Facebook occasionally tempting me to whip out my dirty (I mean splattered with virally infectious verbal diarrhea dirty) drawers. And if I ever did secretly want to start a blog, which I’m pretty sure I did, I always ran from the idea in fear that it would become a spiraling vortex into my strange little world, into my swirling mind.

I would be giving others a ticket to enter my thoughts, to judge me from every angle until my longed-for-death. I’d end up having to wear an anti-mind-reading helmet made of aluminum foil and toothpaste.

So, I told myself: Write, but the personal is forbidden!

HA!

To make things worse, I’ve been encouraged to write about myself in the last few years. Two years ago, my brother’s co-worker told him to tell me that I should write a memoir. For all she knows, I could be illiterate. She’s never even met me!

I even had a complete stranger say this to me: “Hey you! Yeah YOU. YOU, you. You should write about YOU!” 

Ugh, I’m guessing all this is because I’m somehow “special”. Trust me, I’m not that special, please don’t inflate my ears with such nonsense. I did find out I was in SPECIAL ED in tenth grade and it confirmed my suspicions that I am mentally retarded. But this is another kind of special.

Anyway, here I am writing about myself.

But I don’t want to take myself too seriously. I really don’t. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’m a joker. I enjoy kicking back my child-sized shoes and laughing at the absurdities of this world, and most of all, the absurdities of my creation.

I’m REALLY not THAT special. Subtract the special-ed part from school and I get pretty close to not being special at all.

One thing I do know is that I plan to enjoy myself and hopefully learn from this. If this dies here, however, it dies. If it lives as a serious, boring or humorous, self-deprecating facet of me, then it lives.

In any case, without further ado, I present to you my…

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2011 (c) paz
My very first sketch/version of the Mouse before I’d even named the blog. Butt-crack chinned guy in the bottom right (yeah the creepy one) is one of my first PLDs (Pretty Little Demons). They’ve been altered since.

So, what the hell is this?! The paragraphs above were written in November of 2011.

This was my very first post, an introduction of sorts. I never even published it then, but it’s been saved here, an ENTIRE YEAR!

When I sat in front of the glaring blue light of the computer screen a year ago, I was covered in darkness. The only thing lighting me was the screen. The depression had hit again and I was falling deep into my little mouse hole. I was reading an awesome illustration blog then called My Medicated Cartoon LifeIt’s written (or was written) by an animator of children’s T.V. programming. He dealt with deep depression for many years, most of his life actually. I could relate to so much of what he wrote.

That blog inspired me to open up my own blog here on WordPress. I didn’t do anything with it for days. It just sat here all lonely–an abandoned dumpster baby. It became a malnourished little baby, the very thing I didn’t want.

BUT, here I am a year later. My baby has grown. Over ten-thousand views! I can’t believe I’ve written for this long. I hardly ever stick to something for this long. One thing I didn’t mention in the original post was that at the time, I had recently finished reading Marjane Satrapi’s graphic/illustrated memoir, Percepolis which, along with Allie Brosh’s hilarious blog, had also given me inspiration for my blog.

Here’s to writing, blogging, sharing and loving!

More than “lukewarm” blogs, I found a ton of really talented, amazing writers, photographers, illustrators, artists, humorists and like-minded mental-brainiacs. I’ve made some really wonderful friends I didn’t expect to gain! I also got the chance to write as a Canvas author and be part of their wonderful mental health community.

And of course, I appreciate everyone who’s passed through this little year-old blog.

Melancholically Manic Mouse, born November 22, 2011. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE GUY! I’m thankful that you came to life here.

****

Maaan, that was saccharin! I don’t like tears… I better go stuff myself with more stuffing.

Mouse love

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And to review my year in blogging, here is a list of the blog’s categories. CLICK DAMN YOU:

Humor | Memoirs |Mental Health Files | The Immigrant Files | Disability & Chronic Illness | Comicy & Doodly | Poetry Photos

You know you’re hypomanic when you wake up at four in the morning every morning. And then, after breakfast, you feel the sudden urge to write another “You Know You’re Hypomanic When…” post. Then you run off to the kitchen to clean EVERYTHING, or as Allie Brosh would say “CLEAN ALL THE THINGS!”

CLEAN ALL THINGS! by Allie Brosh (c) Allie Brosh owns this art work. It is not mine. It can be found at http://www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

(I’m too hyped to do my own sketch without getting distracted and doing ten more.)

Then you find yourself rashly cleaning all the dishes while thinking, Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex, I hate the way my dad washes dishes. He does NOT scrub them well. From now on, I’ll wash ALL THINGS ALL THE TIME. ESPECIALLY THE DISHES!  I’ll have to karate chop him out of the kitchen if he even dares to wash them. And as you’re scrubbing away, you start fantasizing about who you’d want to have sex with and you laugh ’cause you realize how much scrubbing you’re doing and how that looks a lot like…

And then you find yourself cleaning out and reorganizing the refrigerator. Then you go back to the dishes and think, mmmm I want some coffeee. No P! Coffee will make this worse. You and Mouse will turn into Speedy Gonzales with his weed-head cousin, Slo Poq Rodrigues. 

(sidenote: Slo Poq Rodrigues sings about smoking marijuana, in case you didn’t understand the Spanish part: “La cucaracha… le falta marijuana que fumar”. Also, in primary school, I was nicknamed Speedy Gonzales by one of the teacher aides. Case in point.)

But your inner Mouse says, Fuck it, get yourself some coffee girl! Coffee, coffee coffee woman. You know you want some. mmmmmm. Coffee and sex. Ooooh, and more mouse sketches!

And as little funny and violent images of mouse sketches run through your head every five miliseconds, you wonder if you’ll ever become a world famous ukulele player because, Damn, I’m getting kinda good, after only three weeks of playing again! Oooooo, P, you’ll be the first deaf midget in a wheelchair–with a T-Rex-Duck-Nemo arm— to play the ukulele like a true virtuoso. 

Then, after serving yourself some coffee you go back to washing dishes. But when you’re nearly done, you grab your cup off coffee (because you forgot you’d placed it next to the dirty dishes you were washing) and end up throwing it in the sink, spilling coffee everywhere. And you start cursing like a mutha, but then you laugh and wash the counters and take little Luna out to pee and think about swimming and sex and coffee five dozen other things in less than a second. And if someone didn’t know you well enough, they’d think you’re pissed off because of how hard you keep shutting the counter drawers and cupboards. And you’re all, Holy baby Jesuz, did I just think of having sex with THAT guy? NO, no, no no no, not him PAnyone but him.

And when you’re back in the kitchen cleaning some more, you nearly fall out of your wheelchair ’cause you keep crashing it on all the counters and nearly fall off again (more like jump off) when you get out of it to pick something you see on the floor. Because, remember, MUHSSS CLEENS ALL DA TEENS (in Speedy Gonzales’s exaggerated Spanish accent).

And then you’re all, Holy shitballs (not saying old man hairy balls; still getting disturbing search terms on that one), I need to review my immigration stuff. So you hurriedly run off to the room to look over all the documents. Yes, yes yes yes yes. It all looks good now. Ok. Good good good good.

And you end up wrestling with one of the family dogs on the carpet to the point where he gets tired and runs off. And as he’s running off you bark at him feeling a sense of domination.

And you know you’re hypo when, back in the room, you get on the computer to edit your post to include a bit about how you just almost fell out of your wheelchair and nearly plastered your head and nearly broke all your bones. But the damn internet is slow and not keeping up with your fast typing so you want to punch the screen but you realize you have to be kind to this borrowed computer because your laptop is still broken. And then, once the computer has responded, you have to keep yourself from writing yet another “You Know You’re Hypo When…” post because two is enough P, for now!

August 21, 2012

It’s finally here! My first Canvas post. Please forgive any messy mistakes. I’ve been somewhat absent from the bloggie world this last week and a half. My laptop is still broken and a lot has been going on (when doesn’t a lot go on?)

Anyway, the immigration papers/forms came out for deferred action, so I’ve been looking through those. Let me tell you, it’s a pain in the ass and I can’t see the lawyers until the week after next. But at least my frantic, maddening anxiety has gone down a notch. I’ve been swimming every day now instead of every other day. And between that, playing my ukulele, cuddling with little Luna and taking the bus to therapy, I’ve had little time to catch up on reading. 😦

Also, I went out Saturday despite my bro flaking out on me two nights in a row. And for someone with BPD (read: someone with intense fear of abandonment), I think I managed well by writing this post and accepting a ride from Mansie. He did call to apologize yesterday. 🙂

Anyway, without further adieu, here it is!

I was invited to a game of tag by Sailor and Angel. I thought I’d answer Sailor’s questions today.

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1. Do you think you could survive a zombie apocalypse and if so what would be your weapon of choice?

This is a difficult question Sailor. I had a long discussion with my brother about this not too long ago and here’s what I came up with: On one hand, I’m in a wheelchair, so I can’t run even if my life depended on it. I might get a few yards in but then my legs would break due to my brittle bones condition, I’d thus fall and the zombies would have me prey. I’m only three feet and two inches tall, so I can’t hold really big guns unless I strap them onto my wheelchair or rig it up with weapons. I could also be strapped to a person’s back, but that may slow them down making us both soon-to-be-dead-meat. Taking those things into consideration, I have a slim chance of survival.

BUT, then on the other hand, I’m so small that I might be able to slip into little, crammed areas where zombies won’t reach me (unless I run into a zombie that’s dwarf-size like me or a baby zombie). While the zombies are looking straight ahead, I could slip under them unless there are a few crawling. I’m also quick and agile, so I might be able to train with knifes and fight off the zombies that way. Also, if I’m caught in an attack near a pool or a lake or some large body of water, I can most definitely get away. My endurance in the water is incredible, so I’d be able to swim to a small island somewhere–granted I’d have to make it to the ocean first.

In short, I probably have a 30% chance of survival, which isn’t too great. I’d be one hell of a zombie though. I’d be killer with my surprise and sneak attacks.

Zombie P, pen and ink. The tail must’ve fallen off. © Paz/mmm

2. If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Cheese! I can eat different kinds of cheese, right?

3. Do you think Noah had woodpeckers on the ark? If he did, where did he keep them?

Realmente no se. Tendría que abrir mi Biblia.

4. If space flight was affordable, would you go, just because you could?

I’ve always been fascinated with the universe and I love astronomy, so I most definitely would.

5. Would you very kindly draw me a picture of a bird and post it on your blog so I can add to my collection?

I’d love to! But I just spent too much time on the zombie-mouse which ended up funky looking, and then I realized it’s getting late here and I haven’t ate dinner. So here’s a picture of a bird I drew when I was in Florida back in January. Please ignore the random kids floating around the bird; they’re just doodles from my sketchbook but it’s all for you! (I’ll conjure up another bird eventually)

Bird for Sailor Carrie. © Paz


6. Do you think unicorns exist?

Only on other planets.

7. Why doesn’t Tarzan have a beard? Were there razors in the jungle?

I thought Tarzan did have a beard. You got the Mouse very disappointed and confused Sailor. She’s banging at my skull now.

8. How old do you think you would be if you didn’t know how old you are?

Well, I’m the size of a five-year old, height-wise, but I’m definitely not a five-year old. So, I’ll go with ten, just ’cause I like even numbers and that’s the age my grandma kept saying she was when she had a stroke and started with the dementia.

9. Will you be joining me on my boat when I win the lottery? 

Hells yeah! I’d love to ride the MFF cruiser. But then you might loose me when I jump in to join the dolphins.

10. What makes you, you? 

There’s a house full of PLDs and a mouse living in my head.

11. Did you like my questions? Claro que si, mi querida marinera!

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I’m not going to tag anyone at the moment. But I will add that I made a Facebook page about two weeks ago. Feel free to check it out (or not).

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addendum: I hate Facebook! And I’m having terrible anxiety today. 😦 I remembered about a call I got two weeks ago from a reporter at the Houston Chronicle. It’s about the DREAM Act and deferred action. I told her I was down for an interview. But then my phone got funny and I wasn’t receiving texts for a week. I just got an old message she left me today. I don’t know what to do… I mean, the last interview was nerve wrecking. I wrote about it here: Interviews and Anxiety, a Retort.