Slumber Sweat

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Last night I hosted the first of what’s—by popular demand—a biweekly slumber party. My roommate’s out of town, so to celebrate I had my mom, sister, sis-in-law, cousin and homegirl EQ spend the night at my crib.

We got the party started at my favorite place on earth, Barragan’s, for $2.25 margaritas and free all-you-can-eat chorizo nacho buffet (what I live for most in life). After too many servings to count and enough margaritas to know the next day is gunna suck, we walked over to my place.

I had the La Misma Luna bootleg that Rolando’s mom lent me ready to pop into the DVD when girl talk turned into a sob session. It all started with a text my 13-year-old cousin received about her friend’s older brother getting killed after falling from a cliff on a hike All we could do is give her advice on how to console her friend.

This led to my 18-year-old sister crying about her best guy friend who attempted suicide last week after coming out of the closet to his family, which brought out EQ’s  own personal struggle having been abused by her father. We were all in tears, thinking of the pain she suffered growing up working in the fields at a young age; the stress/anger/frustration brought on by poverty and being first generation and being told you ain’t shit. It all came pouring out in the form of tears, sweat (it got very hot in that room), truth, and pain.

Our slumber party, which was supposed to be spent downing bottles of Two Buck Chuck (which EQ later accomplished) turned into a much-needed therapy session. EQ acted out Gestalt Therapy for us, which I highly recommend.

To lighten up the mood my sister painted her toenails only so a now drunk EQ could make her remove the polish and proceed to paint what we think was supposed to be an orange French manicure. Still not sure. It may sound like the most depressing event on earth, but like a sweat lodge, it was bittersweetly cleansing.