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

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1) What is the one insect you absolutely can’t stand?

Cockroaches! I can’t stand roaches. I’m cockroach-a-phobic. I’ll tell you, one night when I was a kid, maybe nine or so, I felt something tickling my cheek. When I woke up, I saw two antennas wiggling over my eye. There was a HUGE roach on my face! I slapped that sucker off of me–a survival instinct I didn’t know I possessed. The ugly fucker flung out and started flying! Ugggh. To this day, I flinch if I feel something on my cheek or neck.

2) Which fictional world(s) do you wish were real?

I’m tempted to say “Middle Earth” from The Lord of the Rings, but I’m gonna go with one from a book I started reading a little over a year ago and had to put down when the stress of graduation loomed. It’s a planet called Winter and the most fascinating thing about it is that the humanoids living in it can choose and change their gender, so gender isn’t a big issue there. It’s from The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Leguin. It’s a very psychological sci-fi that Monkey Man L had recommended I read.

3) Who is your favorite President/Prime Minister/Monarch/Whoever Has Been in Charge of Your Country in history?

I don’t have one. I’m a bit of a cynic and a critic and a rebel. I do have a thing for FDR though. Besides, he battled polio and knows what it’s like being in a wheelchair. I also have a thing for Lincoln. And I like Jimmy Carter. I like that he didn’t run again to play the games.

4) If you were forced to be on a reality show, which one would you go on, and why?

I was actually asked to be on one in an email from YouTube, although I doubt its legitimacy. It was for a pilot on CBS about disabled “midgets,” no lie. haha. I obviously changed the wording, but that was the sum of the email. I didn’t reply, though for a second, I thought of asking more questions. Oh yeah, ummm, back when I was younger and actually watched MTV, I wanted to be on that show Road Rules, you know the one that came on after The Real World.

5) What is the one feature that your dream house must possess?

An Olympic-size pool! (or just any pool) And I’d definitely have to have an awesome office with lots of techie stuff for film editing and a theater room for film viewing. I think I want to live in a very urban area though. And I find I’m modest when it comes to certain things so I don’t dream of anything big really.

6) What is your guilty musical pleasure?

Gloria Trevi. She’s a former Mexican pop-rock icon from the late 1980s and early 1990s. Her music was controversial and politically charged. She had a four-year stint in prison after her ex-husband and music producer/manager was arrested on charges of currupting minors (mainly the molestation of several young girls). I don’t know what Trevi was formally charged with but her charges were dropped for lack of evidence in involvement. There’s some Spanish gossipy news National Enquirer-style for ya.

Anyway, this is a song from her early glory days. It’s about a wild, uncontrollable girl that is sent to see psychiatrist. In the song she basically tells the psychiatrist to fuck off: “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy. I’m just desperate! Don’t tell me anymore idiotic lies; I just wanna live my own life… I won’t listen… And I won’t pay your bill… And quit looking! Quit looking! Quit looking at my legs! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! I’m not crazy, I’m just desperate” and so on.

I mean it’s got synths!

Without further adieu, here’s the amazing Gloria Trevi performing “Dr. Psiquiatra”. Yes, my guilty musical pleasure (you got it out of me Angel!) and I’m out in the open about it now ok. OK!? I love this song… no, I love a lot of Trevi’s songs, and I’m no longer ashamed to admit it dammit!

I also find it hilarious that the crowd is so disparate!

7) What do you think is the most disgusting food?

Pork skins and pork intestines (we make them with rice in Colombia). After I became a vegetarian, I couldn’t stand the thought of eating them. But I think I’d rather eat that than roaches!

8) Do you smile with or without showing your teeth?

You can’t see my teeth when I smile, especially not after the second Bell’s Palsy hit. 😦

I don’t like to smile in photographs anymore. Ok. Ok. Maybe a faint smile. 😉

9) Do you believe that there are aliens in the universe?

If I remember correctly from class, there are roughly 100 billion stars in our galaxy. If one-third of them are Sun-like, and 1/100th of those house inhabitable planets, I don’t see why not. I mean that’s just in OUR galaxy. If we account for the rest, which is infinite, then yes, I definitely think that, if not within our own galaxy, then surely some other galaxy contains life–hell maybe even non-carbon based life!

10) Choose your own adventure books–yay or nay?

Yay!

(Guess what gave me my wonderful idea.)

11) What is the funniest thing that has happened to you today?

Nothing interesting has happened today, but yesterday morning I went swimming at the gym and something very scary and somewhat funny happened with my tampon. Also, I met my brother’s girlfriend’s family. We were out in the backyard and they’d gone swimming but I didn’t know so I didn’t have a bathing suite on me. I just sate soaking my feet and got tore up by mosquitoes. I told my brother and he asked for bug spray. Well, my brother decided to spray down his girlfriend with bug spray (though I was the only one getting bit). The entire cloud of that venomous gas wafted my way and nearly killed me since I had nowhere to run and my wheelchair was out of reach. True story.

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As in the previous set, I’m going to have to opt out of tagging anyone (dealing with too much anxiety and jaw pain). But I am going to ask anyone who wants to answer a question:

Do you think it’s too late to contact that reporter lady from the Houston Chronicle? (See addendum of previous post)

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I just LOST my Lorna in cyberspace, parts 3 and 4. I want to punch the screen. But I won’t. I don’t want to break my other arm. Besides, this is not my computer. My laptop is broken (not because I punched it guys, don’t get wrong ideas), has been for a week and I’m just not bothering.

I didn’t think I’d do another meaningless post like this but… do any of you know how to recover previously saved versions of drafted posts? Again, I was writing Lorna’s story and then I saved and boom it disapeared. Now when I click preview it’s just a few lines. ALL the rest I wrote is gone. GONE.

Ah, I shouldn’t even be writing poetry right now; I should be editing this guy’s picture and watching this boring wedding video, looking for editing errors and such.

I hate weddings!

(at this moment i do)

I’m going to go look at the WP support forums, but only after I get through this wedding. *crabby face*

Maybe I’ll go for a walk first.

Yeah, a walk in my wheelchair…

addendum: What’s ironic is I usually write these poems out on paper, bit and chunks at least, then on Word but I didn’t with Lorna. 😦 Le sigh

addendum 2: Before I go for real this time. I decided to humor myself  a little. This is me right now only I’m screaming “Looooooornaaaaaa. Looooooornaaaaaa. Looooooornaaaaaa”:

Don’t ask me why it’s in Italian. I couldn’t find an English version.

addendum 3: LOL. I think I’m cracking. This is it. I’m done for. It’s IN SPANISH! HOW COULD I NOT RECOGNIZE MY OWN LANGUAGE? ITALIAN? HAHAH. ROMANIAN? NO PAZ, NO. IT’S IN FUCKIN SPANISH. SPA-N-ISH. Just like Lorna was.

ESTELORNAAAAAAAA!

And I’m out.

A Good List, Round Two

April 9, 2012

Numero 15: It’s a good thing I like mariachi music because I still have those songs from the polished turd dancing all around my head, a swirly fanfare looping and looping with all the other Paz and not so Paz monologues.

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor”

UMPRAPAPAPA!

BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCH! BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHPARRURRURRUR! UMPA-RAPAPAP! UMPAPAP! PAP! Enter voilin solo–DEED-A-REED-DEED–and another trumpet roll. PARURRURRUR! BRAPAPAP!

And…

PAP! PAP!

“But why’d you have to leave like this? Are you at peace now? Please tell me you are. Yeah, you’re at peace. You’ve gotta be…Yeah, you better be you little prick… god…I miss you so much…damn you… you know I love you right? I love you so much…”

“Will I be able to finish it? Oh I can’t now, it’s been so long. She’ll never refer me to her friend for work now. Gaaah, gotta find work. Fuckin’ papers. Wonder if I should call Mansie about this, she did text me last week…”

“I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am…”

“Just ignore. Just ignore that she does that and you better go eat now.”

“Alright, just focus. Why isn’t this opening!? Stupid editing programs and their fuckin’ glitches! Reconnect media, reconnect media! No! I don’t want to send an error message to Adobe. Why won’t you–Bargarghargh!”

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor, que viva el amor–” 

UMPRAPAPAPA! BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHBOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHPARRURRURRUR! UMPA-RAPAPAP! UMPAPAP! PAP!” BOOM CHUCKUCHUCK! PARURRURRUR! BRAPAPAP!

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor, que viva el amor–” 

Numero 16: I’m not even going to try and describe what the pretty little demon’s monologues are like or how they yell over that fanfare above. But I will say that they’re somewhat hushed these last few day. So that’s why they’re number sixteen.

Numero 17: My arm is still pretty frail, still in a thermoplast splint but I’m able to type with two hands again: Tap-tap-tap tapity-tap tap tap! “Que vivan los novios, que viv–” 

Once that twisty, mangled bone is completely healed, I’ll regain strength and be able to doodle and pick up the ukelele again, the one L gave me nearly three years ago. Maybe I’ll join a mariachi band, you know, convince the band that a uke honed by a chick in a wheelchair would be fitting.

Numero 18: Living in Houston is like living in a stinky armpit. Spring lasts three weeks max and it’s hell’s heat from then on out. The salty and tangy smell from the Gulf of Mexico washes in along with its oppressive humidity. The humidity hits you like a sweaty wrestler clothes-lining you. As you slam onto the floor, his moist, ruffled pit cups you breathless.

Houston is being promoted as a “cultural” city. Ha! We do have a great mixture of ethnicities and people and cultures–we’re a melting pot–much like NYC (not at all), but cultural city it is not. And it is far from being urban.

If I were in charge of the city’s public relations, I’d make an ad campaign that reads: “Houston! Come on over and feel the South Texas heat! It’s like having a sweaty wrestler’s armpit stuck on your face or a breathy old waitress with halitosis leaning over too close to your nose! You’re only an hour away from Galveston beaches, where much of the oil has yet to settle!”

But (read: BUT) these short lived glory days of southern spring have been so pretty that they’re helping me with my mindfulness. I’ve tried my best to focus on the warmth of the sun; the green of the grass; the cool evening air that seeps in after the sky’s showers fall; the smell of the dew; the odor of skin, that burning smell it gets when it’s seen the sun too long; the heat, the suffocating heat, the itchiness from the mosquito bites, and the soft fur of Little Luna, soft like a rabbit.

Numero 19: I’m drinking tea instead of coffee. In fact I didn’t have coffee at all yesterday.

Numero 20: I drank a bottle of Heineken yesterday. It was during a barb’q one of my dad’s photographer friends had for Easter–this one isn’t the same one that gave me the turd; this one’s wacky, a bit of a drinker, tweaked-out and has cool younger friends who look up to my dad and tell the dirtiest jokes without being too chauvinistic about it (and these are all Colombian men in their late thirties or older fellas, people, rare thing to see them not being complete chauvinists).

Anyway, this wacked-out photographer friend always seems to want to get me drunk.

“Come on! So you’re not drinking anymore? Ever?”

“No, but right now I’m not.” I know that drinking in the current state I’m in will only lead to disaster. I don’t want a relapse of any kind.

“Are you worried that you’ll have another accident? You’re not going to have another accident” His girlfriend gives him a firm look. “What? She told me about it herself.”

I’d had a near near-death experience due to my drinking a couple of years ago and I didn’t recall telling him about it. I made some excuse about alcohol and my bone density being low and how alcohol isn’t good when you’re trying to build up bone density, which is true.

About an hour later though, I gave in and asked for a beer. I ended up having half of my mom’s beer too.

So what’s the good in this? Well, when I was asked if I wanted another, I firmly replied,”No thank you.”

And that was that.

Numero 21: In the past month, my brother and I have hung out more than we have in years! This evening, I helped him out with another wedding video–nope not getting paid for this one–but, he gave me a copy of a good CD, Florence and the Machine.

Numero 22: I seem to have a fan! A fan from Australia. I’ve been getting lots (by my marks) of views from down under (heehee) and I’m pretty sure it’s just one person.

Show yourself and I’ll reward you times three!

Numero 23: I started writing this post yesterday but got back too down and tired to finish, so instead I put it off and finally added things to my Shenanigans.

Numero 24: Last night was terrible, but I don’t feel quite as hopeless tonight, a little more hopeful even.

G’night. I’m out.

Oh god, am I still alive?

February 25, 2012

Dear God/Universe,

I sit here groggily in this pale Saturday afternoon sippin’ on my cold coffee. It’s just the dogs and myself today. All’s quiet and lonesome. But little Luna, the cutest and sweetest little bitch ever, is laying beside me, leaning her furry back against the desk, taking care of my emotions–and she’s doing a better job than I am. She kept me from crying my half paralyzed eye out. I know, it’s not the soggy eyeball that’s paralyzed; it’s the muscles connected to the eyelid, but  whatever, same shit. Anyway, you should know she also kept me from gauging it out like ole Oedipus there.

God/Universe, I know you know I love you but why do you do me this way sometimes? Are you trying to get rid of me? Why so soon? Why so often? I no longer shout mean, spiteful names at you. I try to eat healthy (when there’s food to do so). I try to eat even when I don’t want to, and that’s often these days. I actually prefer fruits and veggies. I finally got myself in a city-based physical therapy program, and I’m still in psychotherapy. I take my vitamin B12, my Caltrate, my psych shit and my fish oils. I rarely drink sodas. I try to eat as little processed food as I can. I’m not even taking painkillers right now! And I promised I wouldn’t get rid of myself but then you go and whack me repeatedly from behind? What in the fuckin’ fuck?

I thought we were cool man. It’s ok though. Really. I won’t resent you. And you don’t have to answer the first question, but at least tell me if you’re ridding yourself of me. If you are, do it quick. I’m not up for another slow death and resurrection. Tell Zeus to get his lightning bolt ready or something. I know it’s partly, ok mostly, my own creation. But come on! And I know you also know that I’m in pain here and I can try and negate it all I want but it just keeps tagging along. I thought I’d remind you in case you forgot.

My arm? No, that’s actually not hurting now. The recasting was done a lot better this week. Nice fella, the casting tech/nurse/whatchumacallem. And the face is slowly waking up, enough for a half-assed smirk. But this damn eye… I just… ugh. I’m seeing blurry here.

God/Universe, I do want to thank you for all of the patience you granted me with my brother this week. I’d like more of that. I had stocked up on a lot of it during the holidazzzee but I feel like I may run out soon. I have to admit though, we did a hell of great job on that video. I’m not too happy about the sound quality of the voice over in that last sequence, but fuck it. Everyone loved it! And we didn’t even have time to really polish it with finishing touches–no color correction or anything. We’re geniuses! Well, not really but you spotted me with some ideas on that one. You really did. Too bad I don’t get to see him often, and when I do, he usually just gets a hold of me to get something like get help with editing a video he desperately needs to turn in to angry clients. But I can to do the same, so no blame there. The important thing is we got it in and they were happy (better be too with all that work we put in). That’s the thing about my bro and I. When it comes to creating shit, our minds sync up. Too bad we both have that perfectionist tendency and he’s got the OCD thing going. Regardless, Universe/God, I thank you for that.

There are just a few things I wanna request though. I know you saw it coming. So if my brother asks for another editing favor, can you get him to pay me next time (granted there will be a next time)? I know, but I already asked him. I just thought maybe you’d remind him every so often when I’m not around. I don’t like doing too many reminders. It’s cool this time. I’m glad I can help. It made me feel less useless actually. But next time, just a little at least? You know my desperation.

Also, if you send me work, please have them pay too. No more freebees. Fuck that I can’t get a Social Security! Fuck feeling helpless! No more. I will work, regardless of what “the law” says! The fridge is empty and my momma, eh, I’ll write you another letter about her later. It’s not really so bad, I mean, I just need to stay busy so as not to be tempted to burrow back under the covers and stare at the faceless ceiling all day. But how? I couldn’t even add twenty and forty-eight the other day. I swear I’ll do my part about the work though. In fact, I’m watching a tutorial on how to interview a client. See! I’m watching as I type this request with one hand, well I’m not getting much our of it but… I’m going to watch it again… I’m prepping up for motivation and some concentration.

I just… I’m nervous about making this website for my dad (another free job), and I’m anxious about making it at all in life. I mean what the hell? What I even mean by that? Am I still alive? I don’t feel it. Aside from the innermost ache, it’s all still a bit numb, most days. There’s a tingle of life, yes, a little. But not today, not most of these days. You know how fuckin’ shitty this immigration situation can be. Can you grant me something for that? Anything? I don’t want to have to marry L. I don’t. This week, I saw these cool pro-bono-ish lawyers at the university and they gave me a similar prognosis as all other immigration lawyers do. So I really would hope for more encouragement if I weren’t already so vapid.

God/Universe, one more thing, can you tell the Sun to stop calling in sick? It’s getting really heavy and burdensome in this in this stifled city. No, the air is fine, more than fine, but it isn’t enough. And can you tell Karma (if it really is her) that I’ve had enough of her this month? I think she’s overstayed her visit for the year and has given me more shit than I’d like right now. I just don’t think she believes me when I say I’m sorry for any harm I’ve done on this earth and to any living being in this lifetime or any past lives–if, indeed, there were past lives.

And I promise, I won’t write you anymore sappy letters. Ok maybe I will, just not this sappy. I also promise to keep this blog free of too many lengthy or cheeky posts. Just, please help me out here. At least enough for me to focus on this tutorial? (Heehee I accidentally typed “titsoral”. Why do I want to giggle like Peter Griffin? Am I really that childish?)

Anyway, I don’t call on you much, if at all. And I don’t really think I’m useless per say–even with this temporary one-handedness I have going here–but at least, with your help, I can convince myself that I’m not.

I realize acceptance is best. Can you help me with that too? Pleeease.

Love,

PAZ

p.s. I once heard that this little earth I’m on is just another cell in your body. But I happen to know it’s just another subatomic particle full of energy, pirouetting in your endless anatomy. So I’ll understand if you don’t reply.

p.p.s. Kisses.