Comfortable With Conformity



I was supposed to go to someone's party last night, but something happened at the last minute and the party was cancelled. I was a little upset because I had spent a good deal of time getting ready, but I actually dealt with it better than I usually do. I muttered something to S, took off my nice top, pants, and shoes, washed off my mascara, changed into comfortable underwear that didn't ride up the crack of my ass (girls who say G-strings are comfortable are either lying or have a way smaller ass than I do), and fell into bed, trying to calm down and salvage the evening.

S came over and I said frankly, "I want pizza and I want to watch Iron Chef at 1 am at your house." Done and done. S can be so wonderful when I'm cranky.

We ordered pizza (over the internet!) from Papa Johns and I didn't feel a twinge of guilt after I ate three slices of extra cheese thin crust and two breadsticks. Yummylicious. My plan is, I eat a big ol' fattening fucking meal once a week and I won't have cravings. It really works.

That was last night. Today --all day-- I was asked to work at Calle Ocho with my family, selling perfumes (my parent's business). Calle Ocho literally means "eighth street" in Spanish, because that's where the festival is located. It's an annual Cuban/Puerto Rican pride extravangaza. At the risk of sounding like the white, middle-class, surburban snob that I am, it's a really fucking low-class affair. Imagine one million drunk Hispanics, waving flags of their homeland, shouting, "Oye, mami", droves of overweight, over-makeuped Cuban girls with the better (or should I say worse) part of their bodies hanging out of halter tops and short shorts, and throngs of dangerous-looking wannabe gangsta boys, complete with heavy gold crosses around their necks and Cuban flag bandanas around their heads. Exactly. Be glad you weren't there. It's Mardi Gras, ghetto-style.

So now, I am very, very happy to be home. My sister is out for a while with "the boyfriend", so I have some time alone. The only thing that would make me happier is if this was S's apartment I was lounging in. Believe me, a 25 year old person CANNOT and SHOULD NOT cohabitate in the same bedroom as her sister. Patience, patience.

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