Time Machine

If my soul had a passport, it’d have a great collection of stamps due to the frequent amount of times I visit Wonderland. There are triggers that cause these clouds of thoughts and waves of memories. I call them time machine moments. My dearest friend Google informed me that it’s something called “Nostalgia.” The reason why we light up when we come across a place or smell that makes us long for the past. Nice one, Google. I’ll stick to my second grade term.

All along we’ve been taught that time machines were inexistent and ridiculous. But they’re wrong. You heard that Myth Busters? I visit my 6^th grade locker room every time my nose gets a whiff of cheap body splash. I can feel my face red because I was just proving my basketball skills in P.E. My hair is soaking my shirt because my best friend and I just dumped it in the cold showers. I’m getting ready for lunch. I’m planning of a place to sit in the lunch room. I’m 12 years old all over again, because of cheap body splash.

Cheap body splash doesn’t bother me much, but I do wish they’d take Creolina off the market. The Humane Society uses this to clean their floors. The same floors I walked on when I had to put Putica down to sleep. That smell makes my eyes Niagara Falls, and I can lie and say that I’m allergic to it but I know it’s just the memory of that one day that I was forced to retire my best friend of 11 years. Most people want to vomit in their shoes when there’s an aroma of blood, but I become content.  This transports me to Thanksgiving night where I was kneeled down in a hot garage that stunk of blood, it's where my 2^nd dog was born. Blood takes me to one of the happiest days of my life? Fine whatever, call me Edward Cullen.

In December when the sun goes down and I can’t feel my nose, I’m shockingly bought back at the night of my first kiss. I’m standing on cold grass, holding the sleeves of a long black suede sweater that I was probably whipping my snot with. I feel the cramp in my neck from looking up at the first lips that would ever touch mine. And whatever those lips were mouthing didn’t matter because all I was able to hear was my heart pounding in my ears.

When I want to take the scenic route home from work, I get off on the wrong exit, on purpose. I’m in time machine mode.  This only causes me to drive by my previous job, “accidentally”. I’m presented with feelings of encouragement. Driving by this ex-job reminds me how far I’ve come from shitty jobs and shitty personalities. Although gas prices are hurtful these days, the extra cents I spend are worth how victorious I feel at this time.

 If I close my eyes when my fingers are dancing onto the grooves of anything rusty, I can remember my first car. The cold feel of alcohol never fails to make my skin rise and the butterflies in my stomach flap for their lives, making me feel like I’m right there contemplating my first tattoo. It’s like taking a stamp of acid the way the memories of being asked to be a girlfriend become so lucid when I chew on a Ring Pop.

On the day of my wedding, I long for a moment where my nose is inhaling Grey Flannel, because I know it means my dad will be close by.

It doesn’t take a fancy fog machine or a DeLorean in order to travel through time. Soak and sense what is in your present, soon it’ll be nothing more than a time machine moment.

Zombieland hits Miami

Instagram won't let me forget that we had a minor zombie apocalypse here in Miami this weekend. Naked zombies. Two men were spotted buck nekid, one eating another one's face. When a witness flagged an officer to conquer the obviously hungry man, the officer commanded him to “Stop". Right. This is my favorite part; the man looked up at him and GROWLED like a creature, and continued his meal of a man. The cop had no choice but to shoot, but you know what zombie did? He pulled a Scarface and took the shot, and continued.

I feel like this isn't a big enough deal. I'm watching CNN at work and they're talking about the first lady planting cucumbers. That's cute but I think someone should let them know that naked men are eating naked men over here. And not in a kinky 50 Shades way!      

This is my home.. I can't wait to hear what Pitbull has to say about this. I was aware that #MDW #WEEKEND #OMGQUENOTA was going to be a pretty hectic weekend at the beach, but never did I imagine we would be dealing with naked zombies. Luckily I’ve profusely watched Zombieland in case shit got real. Here’s what I’ve learned:

#1 Cardio: Trying to look cute for a summer body? Now you've got other shit to worry about.This attack has given me more of a reason to never skip boot camp class again. Don’t be the guy who dies because he lost a foot race with a zombie.

#2 Double Tap: Don’t throw your gun and shout you’re a baddass, no matter how proud you are of that head shot. He’s going to need another. The report says the officer had to shoot multiple times till he shut down. *Insert re-loading sound here*

#3 Bathrooms: This is not the time to be classy. If ever an attack, pee in your pants. No one is judging you.

I’m going to have to modify rule #4 Don’t be a pank. (Only because I want you to save me, if anything.) “Yo?! No yo me quedo aqui pipo. Meng, he’s eating  A FACE. El tipo ta loco!" Please promise that if someone is going in on my face as if it were a pan con bistec, you will try and stop it? Throw rocks. A vase. Hose the guy down with water. SOMETHING.   

#8 Kick Ass Partner: After you've found one, feed him. This could have probably been avoided with a happy meal.

A rule of my very own #9 Nudist: How could this have been avoided? Simple. Why were these blokes pitter pattering their balls down the boulevard? There was a sign from the start. Naked people are up to no good.

#12 Paper Towels: Brain, blood, vomit, puss, spit, flem, the WHOLE mucus family. Besides you're probably a little sweaty and full of piss.

#15 Bowling Ball: Because you might get bored after you've whooped some ass.

#18 Limber up: Stretch and prepare. Make sure you're carrying a fully charged iPhone battery. Not only do you want to save your face, practice bowling a little, and get back to taking shots with your friends, you also want to Instagram it.

In honor of Mother's Day

All throughout elementary and some middle school I was that girl who wore her hair in a ponytail her whole life. I listened to Tupac and looked up to anything my older brother did. High school brought out the girl in me. I wore make up on a regular basis and started caring about boys. That is girly enough, right? Now... Mid-college, where I think I've become somewhat an "adult", I have this silly 9 to 5 job with fancy women who make me question my ways more than I usually do. So I ask myself, what makes a lady, and how close am I to being one?

I love beer. I feel like I'm supposed to love wine because I own a sparkly vagina, but I don't. Keep the stained smile; I'll take the beer belly. Something about grabbing my sweaty bottle by the neck makes me feel dominant, and ignorant to rules like, "Place your napkin on your lap, cross your legs at all times, smile at strangers." I'm concerned; do I lose lady points with every sip of my beer? I don't match my nails with my toe nail polish, apparently that's somewhat of a crime, call the fashion police. I don't ever have a hair or nail appointment to tweet about. My outfits consist of whatever makes my ass look good (and hides my cellulite). Sit down for this one ladies, I wear gold and silver.. at the SAME time! Oh no!

In this really exciting job of mine, and I said that with my sarcastic voice, my ratio of friends are more men than women. Not because I'm a whore, no. But because we have things to talk about. Such as, movies, events, delicious fatty foods, being hung-over, how hot Scarlette Johansson is. Now with girls? I turn into awkward penguin when you guys tell me about how your manicure went. What am I supposed to say to that?! Every topic I bring up, you girls turn into a cluster fuck. If I tell you about my lunch, you tell me how you're cutting down on bread and I should be doing the same. I ask you about the baby shower you went to that you've been excited about, you tell me that her outfit was ridiculous and the theme "didn't match for anything in the world, ugh". I was looking forward to stories about how the open bar had you taking shots like your name were Kobe Bryant. Or, how you danced so hard you would've sworn it was a scene from "You Got Served", but fine.

I feel kind of left out even. At times that I begin to lose myself in these very well-mannered women at work, I look at these specific pictures of my mom at a baby shower, drunk. Her hair is a more than a mess; she's wearing my little cousin’s baseball hat of a team she probably can't pronounce. In the middle of a serious dance move, in other words she looks flawless. She is my example, she is what reminds me that it's alright to be opposite of "one of the girls". While my mom is a free bird, the dull girls are in the background of the pictures. Sitting down with their legs crossed, probably talking about how the theme "doesn't match for anything in the world, ugh"

From both of us, to both of you.

I think I accidentally diagnosed everyone with bipolar disorder. Between reading “Fight Club” and having someone actually confess that they feel like two different people at times, I’m convinced.  (She said if I mentioned her name she’d put me on the back of a milk carton.)

The diagnosis:

There is a 2.0 version of us that lives. It is able to breath based on the disapproval and judgment it has on you. You, the innocent and legitimate 1.0 version, created this person when it realized how much of a pank You were. More than likely never realizing at the time but each “How the hell did I do that?” moment, 2.0 is over your shoulder smiling with pride. 2.0 is your liquid courage, without the liquid. It pushes You off when you’re standing at the ledge thinking, maybe bungee jumping isn’t a good idea. 2.0 goes to the bathroom during a shitty date and never comes back, while You later text him your apology. It’s a beautiful balance. You find yourself a job that will pay the bills, but 2.0 will write You the best 2 week notice convincing you that there are greater things in your crystal ball.

In a nut shell, Fight Club is a about man who hates his job and life and everything around him, he just doesn’t know it yet. For god sake, his most exciting hobby is collecting Ikea furniture. He then meets Tyler, a careless sexy beast, who ends up burning his apartment and precious furniture and changing him completely. Tyler is his 2.0, my dear reader. They’re the same person.

Tyler Durden: Yes, you do. Why would anyone possibly confuse you with me?
Narrator: Uh... I... I don't know.  [Random flashbacks]
Tyler Durden: You got it.
Narrator: No.
Tyler Durden: Say it.
Narrator: Because...
Tyler Durden: Say it.
Narrator: Because we're the same person.
Tyler Durden: That's right.

Tyler Durden: Hey, you created me. I didn't create some loser alter-ego to make myself feel better. Take some responsibility!

If the world was anything like the Disney ride "It's a small world after all", you'd be content with being sinless 1.0. However, I’ve recently realized that Disney has it all twisted. I mean, if a prince tried to climb up my hair I’d munch it off and become a widow before I even get to choose my ring. Point is, we will always yearn for a better version of ourselves when we find that life’s not all that charming and glittery and flexible. Unless you're a stripper at Tootsie's or something.. If you are, I’m pretty impressed that you know how to read this.

“All the ways you wish you could be, that's me. I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.” Tyler Durden

Must we arrive at the crazy point in which we burn down our apartment because we've become so distraught? Is there a balance between accepting what we are not, but have the chance to become? My question is, do we ever grow to be the person we day dream about in elementary school? Or do we spend our whole adult life battling between two personalities, the kid in us and the adult, the adventuresome dream chaser or the play it safe, the go-getter or the timid dork who blogs about how to go-get.

“People do it every day, they talk to themselves... they see themselves as they'd like to be, they don't have the courage you have, to just run with it.” – Tyler Durden

Now go watch Fight Club, go!



How men are like cars

                                                              RIP

Recently, I was forced to break up with my first car and shop for a new one to better my life. At the dealership I felt as if I were on a dating show while my mom bitched in my ear about how “this one is better!”, when in reality I wasn’t attracted to any and only wanted my old car back. And then it hit me, car shopping is like dating.

The types of cars and types of men

El Mercedes Benz, brode:

This one is simple; you have a celebrity crush right? Travis McCoy is mine. I will marry the shit out of his face. However, I’m not Katy Perry so I can’t. The transition from dating her awesome boobs to dating mine would make him cry. This Mercedes Benz is the one that you can only day dream and pretend you are riding. Then one day there will be an epiphany in your overdraft notice caused by a drunken attempt to buy gum that will say a Mercedes is not in your price range. Like Travis, I can always day dream about riding him, I mean, marrying him but one day but I’ll also realize that he is not in my dating range.

Yeah right, I see the way he looks at me at concerts.

The Volkswagen fling thing:

My first car was a Volkswagen 91 and boy was he handsome. Deep down I knew that Patrick, yes I named him, wasn’t going to be a long term car. My mom would argue with me about how I couldn’t fix Patrick no matter how much I begged my mechanic. Patrick manipulated me with his cute plaid seats, tried to convince me that he would be responsible for getting me to work on time and amazed me with how little gas he needed. He would even go topless for me on the weekends. Sound familiar? Yes it does. That ridiculous relationship where you are clinging like an annoying cat, with no good reason. Why, because he’s cute? Nobody likes annoying cats. Be a hawk, those mother fuckers know what is up. Being hawk-like will make you aware. You are well aware that the engine sucks, (personality sucks). You are well aware that its condition won’t last long (he’s not willing to commit). And most importantly you are well are you are wasting your money trying to fix its mechanical issues (wasting your time trying to fix him). Ladies rise yo’ hands if you feeling me. I’ve always wanted to say that.  With each time my car left me stranded and late for work I gave my crazy ass mom a point for being right. She gets a lot of crazy ass mom points. At the end of the day, Patrick had a leak that didn’t recover even when I replaced his top. He really didn’t care that he was soaking my ass every day. I couldn’t find where it was coming from.  Have faith in my insanity, readers, I have a moral here. Certain men will have leaks, and it doesn’t matter what you change on the asshole, because they will leak.

The car you’ll never appreciate:

 Why the hell do you keep comparing it to your first one? They weren’t made alike for a reason. It/he can be yours for long term. It/he is exactly in your price/dating range. It/he will never leave you stranded. Ladies, this is our main problem. Let’s call them crazy lady glasses. These glasses will never allow us to appreciate the good guy when he’s right in front of us. They also have little asshole attracting magnets on the legs of them. The glasses make assholes look like really good guys you can turn into prince charming. They make prince charmings look like boring frogs. Do we have a little masochist in all of us? It seems that way when we’re always attracted to all that doesn’t come easy and ends up shitting on us. Girls have the habit of putting a diaper on guys and saying “hey shit on me all you want.” Instead of throwing their ass out and saying “hey, I’m not putting up with shit.” It’s safe to say I’ve removed my crazy lady glasses and donated them to Goodwill for someone to stumble upon. If you think my comparisons are nuts, fine but stop giving the Volkswagen points for what it could have been and give the car you’ll never appreciate points for what it is.

A is not for Amy.

You know the question that goes something like “If you could have lunch with any person dead or alive, who would it be?” Well, I choose my mom, dead or alive--although "dead" would be a really depressing lunch hour. I would love to ask her what in the world compelled her to name me after my lunatic aunt, Amarilis.

My name has a background that would work romantically in a Lifetime movie somewhere, but not in my life-time. My aunt Amarilis was in Cuba when I was coming out of my dear mother’s Pikachu singing the baby version of “bad to the bone.” Naming me after her was like a dedication, meaning she was metaphorically "here" with us. Cute, right? Wrong.

If I could’ve spoken any coherent words at the time, I would’ve snapped my fingers and said “Girlfriend, I am not a baby to reincarnate anyone. That is a fucked up name! We live in the U.S of A, ya’ll. Ain’t nobody gon' know to pronounce that!” Don’t ask me why my infant self would’ve sounded like Lil' Kim.

Elementary school was a place for day-dreaming, drawing stick figures with odd shaped heads, and encountering people different from you. My second grade teacher Mrs. Stern was blonde, blue eyed, and red from how white she was. In other words--she couldn’t pronounce my Hispanic first name if her life depended on it. Right then and there, she dubbed me Amy. This defining moment made me believe if I could be Amy, I could be anyone. I didn’t go as far as wanting to be Wonder Woman, but I did get some ideas.

At four years old, my aunt arrived from Cuba. My duty of keeping her legacy alive was done. I set an internal alarm that would ring when I turned 18 to remind me that I can legally change my name.

While I've fantasized about being someone else or going going by another name, my family has served as a constant reminder of how much I do in fact act like my aunt. As you could imagine, this only adds fuel to the fire. Aside from 'Amarilis', my mom likes to call me malas pulgas--which doesn’t make any sense when translated to English: bad fleas. In Cuban slang, it mean "bad attitude" and sort of references my aunt's own behavior. It’s time to put on my big girl panties (not to be confused with my granny panties) and prove them wrong. If I don't, they'll call me Amarilis the second--like a renovated apartment--and continue to picture both of us as the evil twins from The Shining.

At this point, my name will not be legally changed to Emma or Charlie as I had planned since I was Gary Coleman’s height. That is a resolution I will have to build a bridge over, given that it has a tiny fee of $500. And I don’t have a wealthy grandpa waiting to die anywhere. Amarilis will continue being my first name and I will, in the fabulous words of Tim Gunn, “make it work.” Sure, I can never lie about my Hispanic heritage every time I answer a “What’s your name?” followed by a “That’s so Cuban.”

And in the end, so what if no one can pronounce it? Amarilis [ah·mah·ree·lease] noun 1. for person who has plans to change it, so do not make fun of her in the meantime.





With help from the lovely http://www.keepcalmandwriteon.com/