Katherine. The Great.

One night in my early twenties, I left the gym on a chilly Miami night and drove home in silence while texting back and forth with my good friend Lola. As I parked the car and grabbed my purse, casually heading up the steps to my place, I heard footsteps behind me. My brain initially assumed it was a friend playing a prank on me and I did what any girl would do at the moment, scream at the top of my lungs. When the boy behind me looked down and told me to shut up, I did the complete opposite by screaming louder.

"Shut the fuck up and give me your purse," he said, the cold end of his gun grazing my left temple.

In retrospect, I realize throwing my purse at his feet wasn't the brightest of moves. In reality, the five seconds it took for him to bend down and grab it as I opened the door and ran inside possibly saved my life. It goes without saying that my level of paranoia for dark parking lots and coming home alone has heightened to places filled with anxiety and despair most people will never visit.

-------

My roommate Katie is my own little version of match made in heaven. She's considerate, fun, doesn't eat my food without replacing it, hates vodka (which means she won't drink mine), loves my dogs, and understands that cooking in the kitchen in only a t-shirt and underwear while jamming Spanish music is a thing of art not to be interrupted.

Like most people on earth she has one murderous little flaw: Forgetting to lock the front door. I've told her on countless occasions how imperative it is to take care of this one minute task. It's apparent my darling Katie still thinks she's living in the posh and safe neighborhood she resided in, prior to moving to Casa de Annah.

Last night at a little past midnight, I was floating in the clouds of deep sleep when distant growling in the background woke me. As I groggily adjusted my eyes to my surroundings, Bruno was sitting by the bedroom door instead of in bed with his mummy (that's me).

"What's wrong, Fatsi?" I asked, opening the door to the living area and heading towards the front door to check the lock. It didn't surprise me to not find it locked, while Katie slept soundfully in her room oblivious to the dangers that lie in the big scary world of Miami-Dade County. I decided that instead of bitching again so we don't end up shot by our drug dealing neighbors one of these days, I'd take some action and write this post.

This morning I made some signs... Like the ones Lola has for her eight year old reminding her to flush the toilet and brush her teeth before bedtime.

Front door:

Door to her room:

Inside of front door:

I'm thinking these will really get the point across. If not, it's only a matter of time before I end up floating in some Miami canal while my head drifts away in the Atlantic towards Europe and seriously it's been super nice knowing you guys.

Going Back To The Start

Before I left to New York. Before I turned twenty-nine. Before I fucked up my banner. Before the holidays took over and made life rosy. Before I got pulled over for forgetting to renew my registration. Before possible arrest for urinating in public. Before obliteration of a degree I didn't know was possible. Before I met him. Before he blindsided me. Before I shot up the inevitable walls that come up whenever I meet his kind. Before I said things I didn't mean in an effort to drive him away. Before it backfired on me in more ways than one. Before I apologized. Before he accepted. Before welcoming the unknown, there was a start.

One in which I lived less and wrote more and didn't neglect this blog into the obscurity it'll surely fall into if I don't turn things around quickly.

I realize I've been doing myself no favors with my lack of posting lately. And that this broken record of mine as it relates to writing has become one you'll soon throw away if it doesn't start singing a different tune.

I want to go back to that time. The one in which I thought I'd have to give this up due to lack of post material. Then I  let life in and the flood gates of madness and awkward situations opened up once again... I'll start there and move it forward steadily after that.

Promise.

Today I will talk about my hair. Tomorrow I'll explain the rest.

-------

I didn't intend to post about bangs and hair mishaps on Christmas Day but unfortunately this is what the blog gods have intended for the moment being so just bear with me.

So because I cut off four inches of hair between a bout of insanity and my hairdresser trying to repair the subsequent damage two months ago, I can no longer rock my samurai bun.

What is a samurai bun, you ask?

It's this:

And this in real life:

Samurai buns are my thing. They make me feel happy. Free. Ninja like, if you will. Without it I feel conflicted and inadequate on Sunday mornings and gym nights. What could I possibly do to fix this? A little voice in my hear whispered, Weave shop. I figured all I had to do was grab this "ponytail" of hair that looked like this:

And pin it to my top ponytail whenever I wanted a bun and then wrap it around, pin it in place and voila! Fake samurai bun.

After spending $30.00 on "espresso human hair," I got home to try it out but was baffled by the contents once out of the bag:

What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this? Looks more like a hair scarf than a ponytail. Bruno certainly thinks so.

Merry Christmas and a Happy Hanukkah. Or something like that.

Mea Culpa

Between a wine party Thursday evening and leaving to New York the next morning to return to Miami on Saturday afternoon and celebrate a friend's thirtieth birthday to sleep three hours and spend all of Sunday cooking for ten friends and drinking too much wine, my brain is a fried egg (on drugs).

The next ten days before I leave to Cuba are packed with so many activities I've hired someone to split me in three and rock on. Also, my internet broke again (fucking Comcast!) and I drowned my other new phone in a glass of vodka. I promise you that I'm trying my bestest to keep it together but all I can ask for presently is patience and faith that I can be an ambassador for madness and bad decisions even when I'm not writing about it.

My friend finally got around to uploading my banner and I love it more than beef empanadas drizzled in hot sauce. Ryan says it looks like the rising sun flag and I guess it kind of does but it wasn't on purpose. Regardless, we all need a little rising in our lives, whether it's the sun or male body parts.

I hope you're having a killer holiday season. And by killer, I mean full of love and gifts. Not blood and knives. That would be weird.

X,
Annah

Alive

Twenty-nine orbits around the sun today and I'm celebrating the only way I know how: with Penelope nearby and a single birthday wish.

I'm not sure if I have it all as figured out as I'd hope to, but something tells me it'll come to me.

Meanwhile I vow to be more responsible for the sake of those who love me.

The erratic behavior is here to stay, though. Pinky swear.

Somebody *Loves* Me

I was supposed to post this last night but was too busy drinking spiked eggnog with my best friend in the emergency room as she nursed a black eye she got at a bar fight.

Just kidding about the bar fight.

Not about the black eye.

Or the egg nog.

When I got home I cooked dinner in my underwear and sang out loud to Shakira much to the horror of my roommate. Then I went to Lola’s house and had a few drinks only to end up frolicking in bed with Sunday’s favorite mistake. Here’s an ad from someone who supports my blog and all its bad decisions (God knows I’ve been making tons of those lately and you guys love it - except you, Anonymous).

Click on the sidebar ad (or here) and make it worth her while, kids.

-------

I was a little bored of my banner (as you can see) and decided to change it for a little while. Apparently I forgot how to do it because it's a complete blurry mess and I'm too tired to fix it. Bear with me until I can figure it out next week, hmmkay?

You Know What The Holidays Need? More Of This.

"So tell me all about it," she asked while sprawling her legs on my couch, expectant eyes smiling at me.

"God," I began. "It had been a long day..."

Unlike most weekends filled with dark rooms and things said we'd hardly remember come Monday, I'd resorted to descending to reality for a few days of sobriety and reading in bed. We made plans to see each other that night, the sporadic frequency of our times together as erratic as we both were. Penelope had been in my place for about an hour when he arrived with a bottle of wine. Initially I'd resisted to drinking at all but when in Rome...

We sit outside and open the bottle, his mischievous grin shining through every time he offers a joke or remark. As usual he charms the wits out of people he's never met, and when he steps away to the bathroom Penelope is convinced I must marry him. I dismiss her with a laugh and chalk up her naivete to the cabernet flowing through her veins. After finishing the wine and downing some nasty clear liquid a friend brought back from Peru we decide to go to his place, where his roommate is hosting a small get together.

Cassie raises an eyebrow and cocks her head off to once side. "Hold that thought," she says, going to my liquor cabinet and pouring herself some of that Peruvian liquor in a shot glass. "You're right," she winces. This is pretty nasty. Continue."

"We drive off in two cars, Penelope's and his..."

When we arrive there's only beer and we're too lazy to make a wine run so that's all there is to it. There's a taxidermied animal in his living room which he sets on the floor to my horror, and my dog finds completely amusing. We're laughing hysterically as she sniffs and examines the dead body from all angles, possibly wondering why it won't play with her. I realize how disturbing this must sound to an outsider but trust me, it was hilarious. Things are normal as we huddle around the television and discuss sports and better days gone by. No mention of our previous close encounters nor the people we're both dating. It's natural. Casual, if you will. I feel fine with it.

Midnight rolls around and I tell Pe it's time for last call. We finish our beers and get up to leave when she makes a beeline for the bathroom. He approaches slowly, looking down at me and placing his face dangerously close to mine as he says, "I don't want to impose... But would you mind staying a while longer and having some wine?"

The answer was yes. We decide to buy a bottle as soon as Penelope leaves but when she does, the door locks behind me and drinking is the last thing on my mind. As we're standing in silence at the entrance hall he says, "So do you want me to get that wine?"

"Not really," I reply, offering nothing more as I stand there.

"Um, what do you want to do then?"

"Let's see," I looked up at him. "I have a few things in mind."

"Oh my God, what did he do?!" Her eyes wide as saucers couldn't contain her excitement. "Tell me!"

"I guess I figured he'd laugh and we'd buy the wine..." I continued.

He grabbed my shoulder and pushed me hard against the wall, kissing me without any preamble or forewarning. I kissed him back, the urgency of the moment trumping any possible reservations we might've had about what was to go down. Hands everywhere, we stumble towards his room, lips separating only to gasp for air or peel off our shirts.

As soon as the door closes we're on the bed, clothes off in sixty seconds, bodies together in less than that as he struggles to find the necessary safety measures in the dark. There's no hesitation in the way he makes love, no apologies for being aggressive. The bite and nail scratch marks left behind when we're done remind me of a cat fight, if cat fights were enjoyable, that is. I finish surprisingly early and him not long after. A part of me is convinced I'll wake up at some point, but I don't.

"So then what did you do?"

"Nothing," I said. "We laid together in silence for a while and then I got dressed and asked him to take me home."

She wags her finger at me and gives me the you're-always-going-to-be-alone look, "Why would you do that?"

"Because this is what happens when friendship lines are blurred to the point where no one thing can bring them to clear definition again."

She exhales loudly and finishes off her Peruvian fire. "Well maybe you should do something about that, buddy..."

"Maybe I should," I reply.

But I won't.

And So It Begins...

For married people, Christmas and all its traditions center around smiling children and the joy of having a family.

For single people like myself, it revolves around other mateless friends, a few bottles of wine, chocolate chip cookies, and dirty jokes. We had an inappropriately good time putting up our tree and decorating the apartment tonight as I tortured everyone with classic Christmas songs and indie rock. I hereby declare myself the young and fresh Cuban Martha Stewart.

 

There'll be a time when these simple days of cheap liquor and a checking account that's usually negative will be missed.

Today I'm thankful for them.

Tomorrow is simply not promised.

What Had Happened Was...

Remember that time two months ago when I just had to have the new Sidekick phone and spent $200.00 of my grocery money to buy it, only to lose it last night after one too many spirits while out partying? Me either.

I finally figured out that in order to have a "smart" phone, the owner actually has to possess brain qualities conducive to actually keeping the phone, and not losing it on random drunken outings.

My birthday's less than ten days away and if you want to send me a birthday vodka donation you can Paypal it to jrondon2112@hotmail.com. Just kidding (not really).

This year Penelope's having a huge bash to celebrate her thirtieth birthday (we have the same birthday but I'm younger, ha ha ha) and yesterday we got the invites!

I can't call to RSVP because I have no phone. So now I'll go build a bonfire outside my apartment and send smoke signals her way.