As a promise made in the previous post. PS - thanks Kat for the title idea :)
Why didn’t anyone tell me
That women are like Christmas trees
Really only good when they’re all adorned
With round silicone curiosities
And cotton to cover up their prickly idiosyncrasies
And unruly oddities
That they inherited from consumer fables
While they stood obedient, silent
In the vacant corner of the local deli
Forced to observe, and knowing better
Than to yell when the back is already turned
So that the merchant,
Void of any guilt from the illegalities entailed,
Can approach the customer
Tilt his head in the direction of the object so pleasing to the eye
And say
“Yep, they only come in real or fake.”
Continue reading >>
Sunday, December 6
Saturday, December 5
On garlands and candy canes
I bought my first Christmas tree in Brooklyn, New York on a cold November afternoon.
That's not to say this is my first tree ever, simply the first that I picked out and purchased myself. I don't want to say "paid for" because I used the credit card linked to my mother's bank account, but that's another story. Point is - I hauled my ass to Brooklyn armed with gloves, a purse (into which I would end up stuffing the fake snow I stole from the Target display trees), and a really really big Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag to hide the illegalities entailed in my holiday mission.
Something was clearly off when I ended up with the disabled shopping cart. It was the only one I could find stranded on the second floor of Target, and God forbid I cross over to the other side of the store down the escalator and get myself a normal one. No: I found this little guy left for vultures in isle 6, surrounded by Christmas decorations galore. The moment I tried to move him, the right front wheel rolled but did not turn, whirling the cart to its right smack into the artificial candy canes. Hmm, I thought. Either this is nothing more than a disabled shopping cart, or some higher power is trying to tell me to buy those spiffy-looking candy canes. If you know me at all, I always go with the option that's more fun. What this meant was the next 40 minutes of me pushing and shoving and adjusting the wheel every few seconds and crashing into a lot of customers. They understood, though. Christmas brings out the mercantilist bit(ch) in all of us.
After I had my fun picking out the canes, ornaments, garlands, and a wreath, I kicked the cart's bad side into the isle with the trees. Only this was no isle - the entire back corner of the second floor looked like a forest out of Elf. I had never seen so many fake trees so close together at the same time; my little cart could barely maneuver past the plastic branches and the tangles of Christmas lights. It was beautiful, but it wasn't quite right - they were all too big or too skinny or too fake-looking. I realized you can say the same thing about women. Maybe I'll write a poem about how women are like Christmas trees in the 21st century.
And there it was. If I were in a cheesy movie where angels bellowed their "AAAAAH"s and the object in front of me was illuminated in mysterious light, this would be the scene. Just over four feet in a natural shade of green, it looked at me from a stand that was about as high as my dresser. I would put the tree on the dresser. The turn of events couldn't be more perfect if I had a normal cart or if having a Christmas tree in the dorms was legal. This was my baby, prelit and pre-packaged. Sixty dollars for something that will probably last for the duration of my college years? I didn't even think twice.
I asked the nice men in green hats and nametags where they sold the fake snow that was so neatly displayed among the branches, and they threw me a "we don't sell that here". How was I to have a tree without snow? The Russian in me didn't hesitate too long. The purse was small, but if I packed the rolls of snow like sardines, no one would suspect a thing. Besides, would they really care if I took one itty-bitty fraction of the blanket of cotton that covered the ugly tree stands?
After paying up at the cash register, I pondered on how I was going to get the five-foot long box past my dorm's security guard. It wouldn't have been bad if the box didn't say CHRISTMAS TREE and had photos of the goods plastered on all four sides. This is where the BedBath bag came in. I wrapped one half in the shitty wrapping they gave me in Target, left room for the handle, and covered the other side with the plastic bag on top of the shitty wrapping. I was buying a lamp, I swear. The handle cut the skin on my fingers; this is where the gloves came in. At least two men stopped me on the way from Target to the subway with "You need any help, honey?" No thanks, go molest the Victoria's Secret across the street. Brooklyn never fails to substantiate its stereotypes.
As I rolled along the Brooklyn Bridge in a lonely subway car, I considered why I'd go through all this trouble for a holiday which I don't even celebrate, during which I won't even be here. The tree and the candy canes and the colorful lights lift my mood like no other, sure. But what was it about Christmas that made me so incredibly happy for no apparent reason?
I want to say I don't know. I want to say I don't have any particular expectations that the holiday spirit will instill itself into everyone and make them nicer, more forgiving, more optimistic. I want to say that I'm not hoping the $200 worth of decorations in my room will somehow make magic happen and turn the implausible into reality. I want to say I don't wish things were different. But I can't lie to myself, now can I?
Continue reading >>
That's not to say this is my first tree ever, simply the first that I picked out and purchased myself. I don't want to say "paid for" because I used the credit card linked to my mother's bank account, but that's another story. Point is - I hauled my ass to Brooklyn armed with gloves, a purse (into which I would end up stuffing the fake snow I stole from the Target display trees), and a really really big Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag to hide the illegalities entailed in my holiday mission.
Something was clearly off when I ended up with the disabled shopping cart. It was the only one I could find stranded on the second floor of Target, and God forbid I cross over to the other side of the store down the escalator and get myself a normal one. No: I found this little guy left for vultures in isle 6, surrounded by Christmas decorations galore. The moment I tried to move him, the right front wheel rolled but did not turn, whirling the cart to its right smack into the artificial candy canes. Hmm, I thought. Either this is nothing more than a disabled shopping cart, or some higher power is trying to tell me to buy those spiffy-looking candy canes. If you know me at all, I always go with the option that's more fun. What this meant was the next 40 minutes of me pushing and shoving and adjusting the wheel every few seconds and crashing into a lot of customers. They understood, though. Christmas brings out the mercantilist bit(ch) in all of us.
After I had my fun picking out the canes, ornaments, garlands, and a wreath, I kicked the cart's bad side into the isle with the trees. Only this was no isle - the entire back corner of the second floor looked like a forest out of Elf. I had never seen so many fake trees so close together at the same time; my little cart could barely maneuver past the plastic branches and the tangles of Christmas lights. It was beautiful, but it wasn't quite right - they were all too big or too skinny or too fake-looking. I realized you can say the same thing about women. Maybe I'll write a poem about how women are like Christmas trees in the 21st century.
And there it was. If I were in a cheesy movie where angels bellowed their "AAAAAH"s and the object in front of me was illuminated in mysterious light, this would be the scene. Just over four feet in a natural shade of green, it looked at me from a stand that was about as high as my dresser. I would put the tree on the dresser. The turn of events couldn't be more perfect if I had a normal cart or if having a Christmas tree in the dorms was legal. This was my baby, prelit and pre-packaged. Sixty dollars for something that will probably last for the duration of my college years? I didn't even think twice.
I asked the nice men in green hats and nametags where they sold the fake snow that was so neatly displayed among the branches, and they threw me a "we don't sell that here". How was I to have a tree without snow? The Russian in me didn't hesitate too long. The purse was small, but if I packed the rolls of snow like sardines, no one would suspect a thing. Besides, would they really care if I took one itty-bitty fraction of the blanket of cotton that covered the ugly tree stands?
After paying up at the cash register, I pondered on how I was going to get the five-foot long box past my dorm's security guard. It wouldn't have been bad if the box didn't say CHRISTMAS TREE and had photos of the goods plastered on all four sides. This is where the BedBath bag came in. I wrapped one half in the shitty wrapping they gave me in Target, left room for the handle, and covered the other side with the plastic bag on top of the shitty wrapping. I was buying a lamp, I swear. The handle cut the skin on my fingers; this is where the gloves came in. At least two men stopped me on the way from Target to the subway with "You need any help, honey?" No thanks, go molest the Victoria's Secret across the street. Brooklyn never fails to substantiate its stereotypes.
As I rolled along the Brooklyn Bridge in a lonely subway car, I considered why I'd go through all this trouble for a holiday which I don't even celebrate, during which I won't even be here. The tree and the candy canes and the colorful lights lift my mood like no other, sure. But what was it about Christmas that made me so incredibly happy for no apparent reason?
I want to say I don't know. I want to say I don't have any particular expectations that the holiday spirit will instill itself into everyone and make them nicer, more forgiving, more optimistic. I want to say that I'm not hoping the $200 worth of decorations in my room will somehow make magic happen and turn the implausible into reality. I want to say I don't wish things were different. But I can't lie to myself, now can I?
Continue reading >>
Saturday, November 21
I should've listened to the New England fireflies
While (procrastinating before) doing research for an essay, I found this poem by Amber Tamblyn and it's just too good not to expose to the amateur world.
He Seemed Like a Nice Axe
You were adept in the art of slow recoil.
Not a freckle on your face ever cared to surrender.
I stopped counting the times
I couldn't count on you.
Started the habit of smoking to
forgive your mouth for giving up mine.
Whose lips did you kiss
that last time we did?
You went for them like a draw.
A double dog dare.
You just gazed at the bridge of my nose
while the dams around it broke.
My eyes shrunk to combusting plums,
sadder than a Christmas tree on December 26th.
I should have listened to all the New England fireflies
who told me not to.
My heart was a wave
that broke for you.
Continue reading >>
He Seemed Like a Nice Axe
You were adept in the art of slow recoil.
Not a freckle on your face ever cared to surrender.
I stopped counting the times
I couldn't count on you.
Started the habit of smoking to
forgive your mouth for giving up mine.
Whose lips did you kiss
that last time we did?
You went for them like a draw.
A double dog dare.
You just gazed at the bridge of my nose
while the dams around it broke.
My eyes shrunk to combusting plums,
sadder than a Christmas tree on December 26th.
I should have listened to all the New England fireflies
who told me not to.
My heart was a wave
that broke for you.
Continue reading >>
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cutouts
I wrote this entry about a week ago, and hesitated to post it because of how incredibly personal it turned out. But at this point, it doesn't matter anymore. There's nothing left for me to lose or worry about.
“I don’t want you anymore.” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said on the sixty third day after I fell in love.
I suppose the Sunday morning church bells people are attempting to entertain the crowd by turning the monotonous dongs into a quirky melody, but that just adds another layer of sadness. And they stop, enwrapping the bleak dusty church windows into a silence, letting the car honks and the cart rattling and the wild November wind drown out any hint of a symphony.
Though they’re like a symphony of their own. The soundtrack to the [insert typical adjective here] New York City. If I had to describe the soundtrack in three words, I would say cold, restless, and lonely. It can be ninety degrees outside, and all you have to do is just listen to the city to see its coldness. There’s no time to stop on the sidewalk and read a poster because the crowd is permanently following a dogmatic unchanging rhythm. There’s no time to pause and think of where you’re going because they expect you to know that in advance. There’s no time for anything, including emotion.
Is it just more practical to resort to callousness in a city like this? Isn’t there a place for people with an emotional span of Europe who welcome walking down an avenue holding hands just for the hell of it or skipping around puddles without the scowl of a businessman? For people like me? Or do I actually have to become an emotional rock like him and close my heart to intimacy?
We think love is this concrete, significant state of being into which you fall and everything becomes rosy-colored. Truth is, it’s just a human emotion as transient as anger or shame. People fall in and out of love all the time. Where is the constant? Passion is always fleeting, constantly re-imposing itself on people and objects and places and more manmade concepts. If we can be angry with someone one day and then make up the next, what makes love different? The answer isn’t black and white, but it’s not all that complex. If we want to hold a grudge, we are only hurting ourselves; if we want to stay in love when it’s time to let go, well, there’s your answer.
They say you fall because you can’t help it. Personally, I think breaking up feels a lot more like falling. We try to deal through all the problems and approach them as rationally as possible, but in the end it turns out we’ve been slowly dying a little for a while and the breakup couldn’t be helped. So we fall down, down into a land of might-have-been’s and regrets, which is, from my experience, always a depressing place to be in. Then every time you see or hear evidence that your ex-significant other is doing well, it’s like a pang in the stomach when you’re already lying on the floor in defeat. Your eyes become murky and blurry. Insult to injury.
If they say love is irrational, how come people try so hard to rationalize through the reasons why someone doesn’t feel it? If it’s easy to accept that we can’t help who we “fall for,” why is it hard to understand that we can’t help waking up one day and not loving someone anymore? It’s gotta be the same going in and out. Logical or senseless. And if you ask me, since every other damn feeling out there – through rooted in logic – has no substantial reason other than impulse of thought, I’d go with the latter. Love is smooth, but it’s not logical and it sure as hell isn’t constant.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities. There were problems, but love is tricky like that because it makes you think it will conquer all. If any human emotion could conquer all, we’d be in trouble; the world spins round because we learn and grow and change our minds. And then I couldn’t take it anymore and threw a fit, and perhaps we rushed with the breakup. But he knew. He knew how I felt and he went on living the single life in front of my face. I remember one day, way back when we first started dating, I told him I’m worried because I feel like I’m falling too hard, and he smiled and kissed me and said our relationship just became serious. I should've known right there love was bullshit. But I wanted it so damn hard to be real, so I believed.
On the sixty third day, I told him everything. That I still loved him and was mad at myself for giving up so easily. He listened with a completely grave expression on his expressionless face, and after a few seconds of silence he buried his face in his hands and said “I don’t want you anymore.” His reply didn’t shock me – I knew what the verdict would be before going into the conversation – but I just wanted him to know, even though he already knew. I wanted him to hear it from my mouth in case there was an ounce of a chance that he still felt it. Because up until that moment, I believed love could be constant. And in the realm of my daydreams, I suppose it could have been; but in the real world, there is nothing permanent except change. His emotions were not hidden or even all that complicated. They were as transient as anger and indifference. You can look at a pretty box all you want, but eventually you’ll have to open it, and it will be empty.
So I’m going out on a Sunday evening. I will put on my new button-up overthrow and brown high-heeled boots, and I will go into a coffee shop and read “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and flaunt my independence. And if some cute (or, more likely, creepy) guy flirts with me, so be it. Because life’s not about trying to hold on to one thing when the world is madly spinning around you; it’s about, for example, how the New York weather knows exactly how to appease your mood when all you want to do is listen to the never-ending car honks and watch the cold city lights change colors. It’s about the people who don’t know the worth of something until it’s gone forever.
Continue reading >>
“I don’t want you anymore.” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said on the sixty third day after I fell in love.
I suppose the Sunday morning church bells people are attempting to entertain the crowd by turning the monotonous dongs into a quirky melody, but that just adds another layer of sadness. And they stop, enwrapping the bleak dusty church windows into a silence, letting the car honks and the cart rattling and the wild November wind drown out any hint of a symphony.
Though they’re like a symphony of their own. The soundtrack to the [insert typical adjective here] New York City. If I had to describe the soundtrack in three words, I would say cold, restless, and lonely. It can be ninety degrees outside, and all you have to do is just listen to the city to see its coldness. There’s no time to stop on the sidewalk and read a poster because the crowd is permanently following a dogmatic unchanging rhythm. There’s no time to pause and think of where you’re going because they expect you to know that in advance. There’s no time for anything, including emotion.
Is it just more practical to resort to callousness in a city like this? Isn’t there a place for people with an emotional span of Europe who welcome walking down an avenue holding hands just for the hell of it or skipping around puddles without the scowl of a businessman? For people like me? Or do I actually have to become an emotional rock like him and close my heart to intimacy?
We think love is this concrete, significant state of being into which you fall and everything becomes rosy-colored. Truth is, it’s just a human emotion as transient as anger or shame. People fall in and out of love all the time. Where is the constant? Passion is always fleeting, constantly re-imposing itself on people and objects and places and more manmade concepts. If we can be angry with someone one day and then make up the next, what makes love different? The answer isn’t black and white, but it’s not all that complex. If we want to hold a grudge, we are only hurting ourselves; if we want to stay in love when it’s time to let go, well, there’s your answer.
They say you fall because you can’t help it. Personally, I think breaking up feels a lot more like falling. We try to deal through all the problems and approach them as rationally as possible, but in the end it turns out we’ve been slowly dying a little for a while and the breakup couldn’t be helped. So we fall down, down into a land of might-have-been’s and regrets, which is, from my experience, always a depressing place to be in. Then every time you see or hear evidence that your ex-significant other is doing well, it’s like a pang in the stomach when you’re already lying on the floor in defeat. Your eyes become murky and blurry. Insult to injury.
If they say love is irrational, how come people try so hard to rationalize through the reasons why someone doesn’t feel it? If it’s easy to accept that we can’t help who we “fall for,” why is it hard to understand that we can’t help waking up one day and not loving someone anymore? It’s gotta be the same going in and out. Logical or senseless. And if you ask me, since every other damn feeling out there – through rooted in logic – has no substantial reason other than impulse of thought, I’d go with the latter. Love is smooth, but it’s not logical and it sure as hell isn’t constant.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities. There were problems, but love is tricky like that because it makes you think it will conquer all. If any human emotion could conquer all, we’d be in trouble; the world spins round because we learn and grow and change our minds. And then I couldn’t take it anymore and threw a fit, and perhaps we rushed with the breakup. But he knew. He knew how I felt and he went on living the single life in front of my face. I remember one day, way back when we first started dating, I told him I’m worried because I feel like I’m falling too hard, and he smiled and kissed me and said our relationship just became serious. I should've known right there love was bullshit. But I wanted it so damn hard to be real, so I believed.
On the sixty third day, I told him everything. That I still loved him and was mad at myself for giving up so easily. He listened with a completely grave expression on his expressionless face, and after a few seconds of silence he buried his face in his hands and said “I don’t want you anymore.” His reply didn’t shock me – I knew what the verdict would be before going into the conversation – but I just wanted him to know, even though he already knew. I wanted him to hear it from my mouth in case there was an ounce of a chance that he still felt it. Because up until that moment, I believed love could be constant. And in the realm of my daydreams, I suppose it could have been; but in the real world, there is nothing permanent except change. His emotions were not hidden or even all that complicated. They were as transient as anger and indifference. You can look at a pretty box all you want, but eventually you’ll have to open it, and it will be empty.
So I’m going out on a Sunday evening. I will put on my new button-up overthrow and brown high-heeled boots, and I will go into a coffee shop and read “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and flaunt my independence. And if some cute (or, more likely, creepy) guy flirts with me, so be it. Because life’s not about trying to hold on to one thing when the world is madly spinning around you; it’s about, for example, how the New York weather knows exactly how to appease your mood when all you want to do is listen to the never-ending car honks and watch the cold city lights change colors. It’s about the people who don’t know the worth of something until it’s gone forever.
Continue reading >>
Tuesday, October 13
WHOO NEW POST ZOMGGG!!!111one
Because apparently, people still read my blog...
Honestly, guys, sorry for not updating. I've been horrible about this lately, but college is a whole new playing field for me. However, in honor of my birthday, I'm posting up another one of my poems. I was debating for a few days whether or not this should ever see the light of day, but I'm on such an emotional high right now that I feel nothing can crush me. Even your raw, ruthless criticism. I'm not giving any context, so take what you want from it.
Fleeting
The clouds move like a drunken New York biker.
Barely above ground level,
With no sense of a straight line or slowing down.
Fast like a subway train
Only it's the express one, so it skips a couple necessary stops.
Fast like the cigarette-infested October rainwater
Racing down battered concrete
into the Underworld.
Like a pencil gliding across a dead tree
To draw my skewed interpretation of Zooey Deschanel's nose
in 500 Days of Summer.
Why do we move so fast
Like braindead coke addicts?
I'm not on drugs.
I don't think.
I wonder if, when he wakes up,
He ever remembers how my eyelashes tickled his neck
As we drooled on his Ikea pillowcase
And pretended we didn't have class in twenty minutes,
Or that his roommate wasn't undressing in the bed next to us.
From the day we met,
We were as likely to last as the New York clouds could stay in place.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities.
When you speed the "in love" part,
It feels a lot more like falling.
And now
After the stale whiskey and screwdriver shots
And his lovely marks and my sleeping pills
And the uncontrollable, barely remembered hysteria,
After getting used to waking up without his warm elbow jabbing into my shoulder
After realizing his ability to ignore any emotion
After one week
I just keep thinking about the New York bikers,
Recklessly speeding and not caring who they hurt in the process
And leaving others to clean up the mess they've made.
Continue reading >>
Honestly, guys, sorry for not updating. I've been horrible about this lately, but college is a whole new playing field for me. However, in honor of my birthday, I'm posting up another one of my poems. I was debating for a few days whether or not this should ever see the light of day, but I'm on such an emotional high right now that I feel nothing can crush me. Even your raw, ruthless criticism. I'm not giving any context, so take what you want from it.
Fleeting
The clouds move like a drunken New York biker.
Barely above ground level,
With no sense of a straight line or slowing down.
Fast like a subway train
Only it's the express one, so it skips a couple necessary stops.
Fast like the cigarette-infested October rainwater
Racing down battered concrete
into the Underworld.
Like a pencil gliding across a dead tree
To draw my skewed interpretation of Zooey Deschanel's nose
in 500 Days of Summer.
Why do we move so fast
Like braindead coke addicts?
I'm not on drugs.
I don't think.
I wonder if, when he wakes up,
He ever remembers how my eyelashes tickled his neck
As we drooled on his Ikea pillowcase
And pretended we didn't have class in twenty minutes,
Or that his roommate wasn't undressing in the bed next to us.
From the day we met,
We were as likely to last as the New York clouds could stay in place.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities.
When you speed the "in love" part,
It feels a lot more like falling.
And now
After the stale whiskey and screwdriver shots
And his lovely marks and my sleeping pills
And the uncontrollable, barely remembered hysteria,
After getting used to waking up without his warm elbow jabbing into my shoulder
After realizing his ability to ignore any emotion
After one week
I just keep thinking about the New York bikers,
Recklessly speeding and not caring who they hurt in the process
And leaving others to clean up the mess they've made.
Continue reading >>
Wednesday, August 12
First step to happiness
Trust is tricky because you can't really love without trust. Even after my mother catches me lying to her, the next day she still takes my word for where I'm going that night (though with more suspicion) because she loves me unconditionally. A love without trust is tainted, and an honest relationship of any kind is impossible.
I rarely believe in successful relationships after one of the partners has cheated. The other tries to overcome the past because "I'm still in love", but except in rare cases where the trust is fully regained after a certain period of time, there will always be a slight sense of discomfort regardless of how benevolent both people's intentions are. I'm not criticizing - I've been cheated on in the past, and though I broke it off, I always gave another chance. But I'm also not denying that it won't be the same. Every time I see him messaging a girl he's messed with in the past, I flinch. Every time he stays out past midnight, it takes a big effort to drive away the slight paranoia that won't let me fall asleep. Why bother, if it's such a big stress case? Because "I'm still in love". But after weeks of the same scenario I can honestly say that it sucks.
A relationship is successful if it continues to make you happy, and true happiness is a long-term sort of contentness. An emotional roller coaster of tears and ecstasy is all fun when you're, like, 15, but after a while you want something that brings you security. What I'm doing is about as antonymic of security as milk and Campari, and yet I stay. And here's a fun fact: I've been crying every night for the past week. Every damn night - about moving away, my parents' scandals, getting yelled at at the post office (yeah... seriously), being the emotional baggage girl in college, and how I'm losing this fight. I feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot when I tell him my insecurities, but that's wrong, because someone who truly cares about you won't love you less for your insecurities. Those nights, I feel helpless and can't think of a single step to take in the positive direction.
Then there are times like now, when I think I know what that step has to be. It is to trust, no matter how badly you want to keep your guard up. Either trust, or leave. I don't have much experience in love, but I think in the long term, it's better to be the person who puts themselves out there and gets hurt rather than the one who always lives in suspicion. Because pretending to be happy is about as helpful to you as knowing that tulips come from Turkey.
Continue reading >>
I rarely believe in successful relationships after one of the partners has cheated. The other tries to overcome the past because "I'm still in love", but except in rare cases where the trust is fully regained after a certain period of time, there will always be a slight sense of discomfort regardless of how benevolent both people's intentions are. I'm not criticizing - I've been cheated on in the past, and though I broke it off, I always gave another chance. But I'm also not denying that it won't be the same. Every time I see him messaging a girl he's messed with in the past, I flinch. Every time he stays out past midnight, it takes a big effort to drive away the slight paranoia that won't let me fall asleep. Why bother, if it's such a big stress case? Because "I'm still in love". But after weeks of the same scenario I can honestly say that it sucks.
A relationship is successful if it continues to make you happy, and true happiness is a long-term sort of contentness. An emotional roller coaster of tears and ecstasy is all fun when you're, like, 15, but after a while you want something that brings you security. What I'm doing is about as antonymic of security as milk and Campari, and yet I stay. And here's a fun fact: I've been crying every night for the past week. Every damn night - about moving away, my parents' scandals, getting yelled at at the post office (yeah... seriously), being the emotional baggage girl in college, and how I'm losing this fight. I feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot when I tell him my insecurities, but that's wrong, because someone who truly cares about you won't love you less for your insecurities. Those nights, I feel helpless and can't think of a single step to take in the positive direction.
Then there are times like now, when I think I know what that step has to be. It is to trust, no matter how badly you want to keep your guard up. Either trust, or leave. I don't have much experience in love, but I think in the long term, it's better to be the person who puts themselves out there and gets hurt rather than the one who always lives in suspicion. Because pretending to be happy is about as helpful to you as knowing that tulips come from Turkey.
Continue reading >>
Monday, August 10
The greatest lie ever told
I don't like talking to self-assured adults. They complain about their dull, banal problems and like to point out how much life experience they have to back up their arguments. What I saw back in Turkmenistan this summer was especially bad. The men took up the role of stoic-diplomat-on-vacation, walking around the pool with four cell phones allotted to their four different businesses while wearing very form-fitting underwear, and the women, when they weren't busy gossiping with each each other about what shade of beige is in this year (I'm dead serious), took precious minutes teaching their kids inverted morals to ensure that they grow up to be just like their parents. They all look hard for cliches and punchlines and idioms to appear intelligent to their aristocrat friends, whose brains just as equally epitomize degradation.
The greatest lie ever told is that life has meaning and adults know what it is. The problem is that by the time you realize this, it's too late: you've already spent your best years setting materialistic goals and slaving away toward a sugary future outlined by your parents (work hard in school -> work harder in college -> land a six-digit job -> success), and now you're thirty-something and no closer to enlightenment than you were ten years ago. Then you either end up with a special type of depression known as a mid-life crisis and desperately try to gain back lost time, or you can take your frustration out on your kids by letting the lie live on.
Does life have meaning, and does anyone know what it is? A popular opinion seems to be that we're brought into the world to find happiness. The problem with that theory is that it doesn't bring you any closer to being happy or to figuring out that which will make you happy. And if there are any adults worth talking to about this business, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them.
Continue reading >>
The greatest lie ever told is that life has meaning and adults know what it is. The problem is that by the time you realize this, it's too late: you've already spent your best years setting materialistic goals and slaving away toward a sugary future outlined by your parents (work hard in school -> work harder in college -> land a six-digit job -> success), and now you're thirty-something and no closer to enlightenment than you were ten years ago. Then you either end up with a special type of depression known as a mid-life crisis and desperately try to gain back lost time, or you can take your frustration out on your kids by letting the lie live on.
Does life have meaning, and does anyone know what it is? A popular opinion seems to be that we're brought into the world to find happiness. The problem with that theory is that it doesn't bring you any closer to being happy or to figuring out that which will make you happy. And if there are any adults worth talking to about this business, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them.
Continue reading >>
On art
Warning: do not attempt to read this post if you are excessively tired, sleepy, busy, impatient, or intoxicated.
This is from a book called The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, and I will probably be mentioning it a lot in the near future. Besides being hands-down the best book I've ever read, there are so many thoughts and ideas to take away from it. It continues to teach long after the last page was turned. I thought this was the perfect passage to start things off as it introduces the very reason I choose art - and I mean all kinds of art - as my career choice and lifelong path. I'm going into a political science major, but all for the sake of reporting on it using words that can influence, sentences that are crafted in a way that hits all the right buttons. That's art. Why is it that we are happy to read something really good, and we marvel at the writer's talent for so effortlessly lightening our mood?
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Human longing! We cannot cease desiring, and this is our glory, and our doom. Desire! It carries us and crucifies us, delivers us every new day to a battlefield where, on the eve, the battle was lost; but in sunlight, does it not look like a territory ripe for conquest, a place where - even though tomorrow we will die - we can build empires doomed to fade to dust, as if the knowledge we have of their imminent fall had absolutely no effect on our eagerness to build them now? We are filled with the energy of constantly wanting that which we cannot have, we are abandoned at dawn on a field littered with corpses, we are transported until our death by projects that are no sooner completed than they must be renewed. Yet how exhausting it is to be constantly desiring...
This is from a book called The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, and I will probably be mentioning it a lot in the near future. Besides being hands-down the best book I've ever read, there are so many thoughts and ideas to take away from it. It continues to teach long after the last page was turned. I thought this was the perfect passage to start things off as it introduces the very reason I choose art - and I mean all kinds of art - as my career choice and lifelong path. I'm going into a political science major, but all for the sake of reporting on it using words that can influence, sentences that are crafted in a way that hits all the right buttons. That's art. Why is it that we are happy to read something really good, and we marvel at the writer's talent for so effortlessly lightening our mood?
...We soon aspire to pleasure without the quest, to a blissful state without beginning or end, where beauty would no longer be an aim or a project but the very proof of our nature. And that state is art. When we gaze at a still life, when - even though we did not pursue it - we delight in its beauty, a beauty borne away by the magnified and immobile figuration of things, we find pleasure in the fact that there was no need for longing, we may contemplate something we need not want, may cherish something we need not desire. In this scene before our eyes - silent, without life or motion - a time exempt of projects is incarnated, perfection purloined from duration and its weary greed - pleasure without desire, existence without duration, beauty without will.
For art is emotion without desire.
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Sunday, August 9
The beginning of the end
And here I go again.
I'm definitely planning to continue the blog during college - how else will my old friends know the agonizing details of the big fat crazy booty-shaking adventure that is life at NYU - but I feel like those posts will belong to a world entirely different from this one. Before I take that last step, there are still some entries left to be written. They'll be succinct and probably random, just like my last thoughts about all the years spent in Palo Alto.
The reason I've been MIA for a month is that I've been vacationing in Russia, but that's not why I haven't posted in such a long time. The truth is that there are so many things to say that I can't even start talking. Hopefully they'll come out bit by bit over the next few weeks because as I've said before, writing helps me deal with whatever's wrong, and yes I KNOW I shouldn't be complaining because I'm going to a great school in one of the most exciting cities in the world and yada yada, but since I'm saying something's wrong I must have a reason, right?
All I ask of you readers is that you don't dismiss my reasons. "You'll forget about it in a few months" sounds dandy, but at least consider the possibility that there's more to it. There may be more to it than the routinely cold feet or my habitual overthinking or, as Mr. Daren liked to say, my "teenage angst" (how strange to think that I'll never have to answer to him again). Or there may be not. Mr. Pandich, my old history teacher, liked to remind us of the kiss principle - keep it simple, stupid - whenever we wrote anything, long or short. So I'm keeping it simple and unedited. This is me, this is the end of a huge chunk of my life and the beginning of another, and this is how I say goodbye.
After I get the obvious out of the way, it gets complicated.
Continue reading >>
I'm definitely planning to continue the blog during college - how else will my old friends know the agonizing details of the big fat crazy booty-shaking adventure that is life at NYU - but I feel like those posts will belong to a world entirely different from this one. Before I take that last step, there are still some entries left to be written. They'll be succinct and probably random, just like my last thoughts about all the years spent in Palo Alto.
The reason I've been MIA for a month is that I've been vacationing in Russia, but that's not why I haven't posted in such a long time. The truth is that there are so many things to say that I can't even start talking. Hopefully they'll come out bit by bit over the next few weeks because as I've said before, writing helps me deal with whatever's wrong, and yes I KNOW I shouldn't be complaining because I'm going to a great school in one of the most exciting cities in the world and yada yada, but since I'm saying something's wrong I must have a reason, right?
All I ask of you readers is that you don't dismiss my reasons. "You'll forget about it in a few months" sounds dandy, but at least consider the possibility that there's more to it. There may be more to it than the routinely cold feet or my habitual overthinking or, as Mr. Daren liked to say, my "teenage angst" (how strange to think that I'll never have to answer to him again). Or there may be not. Mr. Pandich, my old history teacher, liked to remind us of the kiss principle - keep it simple, stupid - whenever we wrote anything, long or short. So I'm keeping it simple and unedited. This is me, this is the end of a huge chunk of my life and the beginning of another, and this is how I say goodbye.
After I get the obvious out of the way, it gets complicated.
Continue reading >>
Monday, June 1
List of the Week aka Just Friends, v. 2
This week, the post features a list of things I will miss about this boy. I was thinking of writing it entry-style like I did at the end of last year, but figured this way I'll kill both birds. After all, what better theme for a list of the week than a run down memory lane full of uncomfortable, awkward, kinda-makes-you-cringe-every-time-you-think-about-them sweet old memories? This time there's a lot more to say anyway.
Things I'll miss
But dammit, I wish you'd forgive me for my choice. Now that the year is winding down and I'm getting ready to pack my bags for the Dominican, there's nothing I want more than to leave on a good note. You say you're over it, but you clearly haven't moved past it. Obviously, things will not go back to normal; but they sure as hell aren't gonna move anywhere if you keep them at this stalemate. You've gotta start somewhere. One word, some effort. What you're afraid of won't even matter now since we may never see each other again. There'll be no more glances, no more smiles -
There’ll be no more grabbing my hand to pat it as one of our many inside jokes and no more sharing the worst pickup lines that involve touching body parts of the opposite sex (in appropriate places, of course). No more yelling across the hall about how great my ass looks in those jeans because you knew that made me insanely uncomfortable, and you’ve always enjoyed my misery.
I miss being just friends. I guess I never got used to it.
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Things I'll miss
- Our ridiculous, at times completely inappropriate and at all times frustrating stubbornness.
- Catching a glimpse of your head in-between people I really don't care about
- (And you're not hard to spot, you have a total of like six shirts that you rotate every now and then)
- Walking - more realistically, shoving and pushing - through the crowd to where you're standing, making quick expressionless eye contact (I am so breezy) and continuing on my way, wondering what thought crossed your mind in that fraction of a second
- The jokes that didn't ever make much sense
- Comfortable laughs
- Simple, unspoken understanding
- How I could always count on a conversation whenever my day was crappy (and that was like 28 days out of each month)
- The long, long talks every night that were the reason homework wasn't finished and bedtime came at 1, sometimes 2
- How I told you absolutely everything (too much, apparently)
- Your sober, practical, slightly jealous point of view that I turned to when the girls' got overcliched and annoying
- Your taste in music that I rarely liked
- Your equally strange taste in movies that were usually overdone
- Except for When Harry Met Sally, that one was good. And I remember that's not where everything started with us but it just made things more complicated.
- Your hands, which were so rough from doing what you love to do (that's what she said (not really heheh (well kind of... but that's not what I mean)))
- Your endless search for a fitting compliment that just ended up making me laugh anyway
- How you could always notice the small things, but didn't always understand them
- Watching you stand all cute and shy at Starbucks
- How, no matter how amazing of a day I was having in New York, I couldn't wait to get to the hotel room to tell you all about it
- Which reminds me: I'll miss calling you in the airport to say goodbye, in case our plane crashed
- Directing my many AIM statuses at you
- Singing (and I think it's time to agree that I am loads better)
- Making faces when I should have been paying attention during a class with a teacher FROM THE DARKEST PITS OF HELL
- The couch, your laptop burning your thighs
- (I watched that show till the end, you know. The very last episode.)
- Your face when it got really, really serious. Which, honestly, scared me a little
- Your naive plans for us, for me. Didn't I tell you it was a one-way road I was on?
- How you were outside your house barefoot in December talking to me on the phone because you couldn't do it otherwise
- Most importantly, I'll miss how you forgave me. You forgave me for my little Christmas surprise, and you forgave me for what happened the day after.
But dammit, I wish you'd forgive me for my choice. Now that the year is winding down and I'm getting ready to pack my bags for the Dominican, there's nothing I want more than to leave on a good note. You say you're over it, but you clearly haven't moved past it. Obviously, things will not go back to normal; but they sure as hell aren't gonna move anywhere if you keep them at this stalemate. You've gotta start somewhere. One word, some effort. What you're afraid of won't even matter now since we may never see each other again. There'll be no more glances, no more smiles -
There’ll be no more grabbing my hand to pat it as one of our many inside jokes and no more sharing the worst pickup lines that involve touching body parts of the opposite sex (in appropriate places, of course). No more yelling across the hall about how great my ass looks in those jeans because you knew that made me insanely uncomfortable, and you’ve always enjoyed my misery.
I miss being just friends. I guess I never got used to it.
Continue reading >>
Friday, May 29
Changing face
When I looked at the home page of my blog this morning, instead of feeling a rush of excitement at all the writing possibilities, I felt a whopping bleeeeeeeeeh. It just screamed (or more likely whimpered, as it dried up, withering) dread and depression. So I changed the header to something more fitting to the next few months that are opening up ahead of me.
For some reason I have a newfound obsession with the color lime - it is bright without being obnoxious, and at the same time cooling without looking dreary. I've got a bit of New York in there, although I doubt this header will last far into the year. The funky font is actually the same one they use for the headings in the Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, which is what my life reminds me of sometimes - a giant cartoon. Only less funny.
Countdown to trip: 9 days. I'm still trying to figure out a way to blog in internetless Turkmenistan.
Continue reading >>
For some reason I have a newfound obsession with the color lime - it is bright without being obnoxious, and at the same time cooling without looking dreary. I've got a bit of New York in there, although I doubt this header will last far into the year. The funky font is actually the same one they use for the headings in the Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, which is what my life reminds me of sometimes - a giant cartoon. Only less funny.
Countdown to trip: 9 days. I'm still trying to figure out a way to blog in internetless Turkmenistan.
Continue reading >>
It starts in my toes, and I crinkle my nose
As we drove down the road that was more twisted than a pair of untangled headphones, he laughed at my “focus” face. Both eyes ahead, eyebrow muscles slightly strained. I could only afford to crank the car up to 40 – anything faster guaranteed a run-in with the mountain slope. We didn’t talk much on the way up; I remember “Birthday Sex” came on the radio and we sang along in our mutual tonedeafness. How easy it all was. I knew I was going to be home an hour late and I knew I would never hear the end of it, but I went anyway. So I pushed away all thoughts about what I was going to tell my mother and enjoyed the view that was starting to peek through the treetops.
The view was amazing. More stars than I’ve ever seen concentrated at one dot, and others thrown around like dandruff on a black suit. The entire bay area slept under a soft thin fog. A few lights here and there, but mostly it was black, with a barely perceptible red glow that I could only assume were the diffused street and bridge lights. It was surprisingly warm. Four other cars were parked next to ours, whose owners leaned against the railing smoking and laughing and talking and kissing. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of us, so everyone had their privacy.
There, with my feet on the ledge, cigarette in one hand and his hood strings in the other, was the first time I felt a goodbye. What a perfect place to bid farewell to the last nine years in this town. This – the town, the warm air, the rough skin on his hands – felt like home. I did not think about talking as words glided effortlessly through my mouth, and everything that was said was just right. Just enough. Then again, there isn’t enough time in the world (especially not a week and two days) to say everything. But that’s just how it is, and how it always was.
“What will happen on this very day in five years?” I asked. He pressed his lips to mine. “You’ll be in my apartment, telling me about school,” he decided. “And I’ll hopefully be telling you about my school. Not hopefully – I will be telling you about how I accomplished my goal.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t get into my hair. “And what exactly is your goal?” “Easy – to be successful,” he shrugged. “I know I’ll get there in five years.” No, I thought. Easy was what we were doing now. It really only gets harder from here. But nothing else needed to be said, so we looked at each other in silence as the wind played with our jackets.
There are many times when I think I deserve better. Many memories of pain and disappointment, and countless promises to myself to never go down that road again. And while I’m sticking to that promise, part of me desperately wants this one last week. And that part of me wins the age-old battle of brain versus heart. Because if this is as good as it gets, then it gets pretty damn amazing. It brings charm and comfort to any ordinary thing. Where will I find comfort in the crazy, chaotic New York City?
And then I remember how much we’d give up for each other. Screwed could not even begin to describe our condition that night with our parents, and if you don’t count the drive there and back, the entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Was it worth it? Hell to the fucking yeah.
I know I’ll get used to it, sometime in the next year, eventually. I just have no clue how I have to bear the separation now.
Continue reading >>
The view was amazing. More stars than I’ve ever seen concentrated at one dot, and others thrown around like dandruff on a black suit. The entire bay area slept under a soft thin fog. A few lights here and there, but mostly it was black, with a barely perceptible red glow that I could only assume were the diffused street and bridge lights. It was surprisingly warm. Four other cars were parked next to ours, whose owners leaned against the railing smoking and laughing and talking and kissing. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of us, so everyone had their privacy.
There, with my feet on the ledge, cigarette in one hand and his hood strings in the other, was the first time I felt a goodbye. What a perfect place to bid farewell to the last nine years in this town. This – the town, the warm air, the rough skin on his hands – felt like home. I did not think about talking as words glided effortlessly through my mouth, and everything that was said was just right. Just enough. Then again, there isn’t enough time in the world (especially not a week and two days) to say everything. But that’s just how it is, and how it always was.
“What will happen on this very day in five years?” I asked. He pressed his lips to mine. “You’ll be in my apartment, telling me about school,” he decided. “And I’ll hopefully be telling you about my school. Not hopefully – I will be telling you about how I accomplished my goal.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t get into my hair. “And what exactly is your goal?” “Easy – to be successful,” he shrugged. “I know I’ll get there in five years.” No, I thought. Easy was what we were doing now. It really only gets harder from here. But nothing else needed to be said, so we looked at each other in silence as the wind played with our jackets.
There are many times when I think I deserve better. Many memories of pain and disappointment, and countless promises to myself to never go down that road again. And while I’m sticking to that promise, part of me desperately wants this one last week. And that part of me wins the age-old battle of brain versus heart. Because if this is as good as it gets, then it gets pretty damn amazing. It brings charm and comfort to any ordinary thing. Where will I find comfort in the crazy, chaotic New York City?
And then I remember how much we’d give up for each other. Screwed could not even begin to describe our condition that night with our parents, and if you don’t count the drive there and back, the entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Was it worth it? Hell to the fucking yeah.
I know I’ll get used to it, sometime in the next year, eventually. I just have no clue how I have to bear the separation now.
Continue reading >>
Tuesday, May 26
My dirty little secret
Who has to know?
When we live such fragile lives
It's the best way we survive
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you
Tell me all that you've thrown away
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are
The only one that needs to know
And I plan to keep it that way. Every time I replay the sequence of events in my head, I can't help but smile. I know it's wrong, but unfortunately it feels like the right kind of wrong and I'm doomed to always choose my heart over logic. I can't help myself.
Continue reading >>
When we live such fragile lives
It's the best way we survive
I go around a time or two
Just to waste my time with you
Tell me all that you've thrown away
Find out games you don't wanna play
You are
The only one that needs to know
And I plan to keep it that way. Every time I replay the sequence of events in my head, I can't help but smile. I know it's wrong, but unfortunately it feels like the right kind of wrong and I'm doomed to always choose my heart over logic. I can't help myself.
Continue reading >>
Saturday, May 16
I forgive you.
I began writing a post three days ago, but was never able to finish. I had all the words to start it but not enough to write an ending that actually had a conclusion. So I'll leave that for after senior trip-
In the meantime, there are so many things I want to say before the year ends I don't know which topic to start with. Since we're boarding the bus for the 5+ hour ride (with the Darenator!...) to Laguna tomorrow, I'm going to keep this brief.
A friend reminded me today about mistakes and repair, and somehow this takes on a different meaning when I'm saying goodbye to one part of my life and leaping into the random scary unknown. We all make them, the mistakes. Some are practically harmless and some turn our life around. Luckily I don't think I've made any of the second type, but who knows? Who's to say that if I hadn't made this decision or that one, I would be in a completely different place? But if someone makes mistakes that affect us, the important thing is not to hold grudges. This is particularly hard when "affect" means ripping every endorphin (='happy' chemical in the brain (yes I'm aware I'm a psych nerd)) apart and stomping them down until nothing is left but sad, brooding regret. I have the right to be mad for another week, you say. Then I'll think about forgiving them. But what if there isn't a tomorrow because this is the end, this is it? How important is getting back at someone when in a few days there's a good chance you'll never see them again?
Most importantly, if this person has been a major part of your life, shouldn't the leaving memories be at least amiable? That's a very weak word in retrospect. Amazing, unforgettable, happy are all better substitutes, but things rarely work out that way. The most we can do is make an effort to not make the memories painful, for either of you. Not when it's the last week, day, few hours. And then to forgive. That's one of the few qualities that make us uniquely human - acknowledging that someone screwed up but accepting them and loving them anyway.
So I forgive you, you stupid, stupid idiot.
Continue reading >>
In the meantime, there are so many things I want to say before the year ends I don't know which topic to start with. Since we're boarding the bus for the 5+ hour ride (with the Darenator!...) to Laguna tomorrow, I'm going to keep this brief.
A friend reminded me today about mistakes and repair, and somehow this takes on a different meaning when I'm saying goodbye to one part of my life and leaping into the random scary unknown. We all make them, the mistakes. Some are practically harmless and some turn our life around. Luckily I don't think I've made any of the second type, but who knows? Who's to say that if I hadn't made this decision or that one, I would be in a completely different place? But if someone makes mistakes that affect us, the important thing is not to hold grudges. This is particularly hard when "affect" means ripping every endorphin (='happy' chemical in the brain (yes I'm aware I'm a psych nerd)) apart and stomping them down until nothing is left but sad, brooding regret. I have the right to be mad for another week, you say. Then I'll think about forgiving them. But what if there isn't a tomorrow because this is the end, this is it? How important is getting back at someone when in a few days there's a good chance you'll never see them again?
Most importantly, if this person has been a major part of your life, shouldn't the leaving memories be at least amiable? That's a very weak word in retrospect. Amazing, unforgettable, happy are all better substitutes, but things rarely work out that way. The most we can do is make an effort to not make the memories painful, for either of you. Not when it's the last week, day, few hours. And then to forgive. That's one of the few qualities that make us uniquely human - acknowledging that someone screwed up but accepting them and loving them anyway.
So I forgive you, you stupid, stupid idiot.
Continue reading >>
Monday, May 11
What is and what could've been
Two poems today, both by Laura Haskins-Bookser.
Regrets
I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself
My mother is alone, asleep in her room
I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway
Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly
Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?
I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier
I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM
She screamed at me that day as well
You don't need help
You just want attention
So while she is
still yelling in the hallway
I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state
The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins
I think to myself
It's only Saturday
I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over
Continue reading >>
Regrets
I am seventeen
and I just came home
so drunk and
so high
that I've just pissed myself
My mother is alone, asleep in her room
I rush to clean up after myself
trying to be quiet
but when I get out of the shower
my mother is standing in the hallway
Screaming at me
in a rage that I rarely saw
Beating on me with her fists
slapping me wildly
Do you want to be like your father?
Do you want to be a drunk?
I dodge out of her way
make it to my room
and remember one year earlier
I sat my parents down
Told them I thought I might have
A PROBLEM
She screamed at me that day as well
You don't need help
You just want attention
So while she is
still yelling in the hallway
I lock the door
ignoring her
and fall asleep quickly
because of my lethargic state
The next morning
the masks go back on
the superficial talk of the day begins
I think to myself
It's only Saturday
I still have another night of partying
before my weekend is over
Sleep Deprived
I slept
slept like a baby
a normal baby, that is
who doesn't survive on
three-hour blocks of sleep
I slept
without one interruption
without one peep from your crib
without any noise at all
from you
I panicked
and jumped out of bed
raced to your crib
on the other side of the room
You are not breathing
I am sure of it
I cry out
call your name
pick you up
wake you up
Oh no
I slept
slept like a baby
and could have gone back to sleep
if only I hadn't woken you
from the deep sleep you were enjoying
You scream
and I laugh and I hug you
that's the baby I know
that's the baby I love
Continue reading >>
Sunday, May 10
Black Coffee
By Cathy C., Damascus, MD
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me on the sixty-third day after I fell in love.
It started quickly, but it always starts quickly. Love was classic, and love was smooth. If there were a soundtrack to those first four months, it would consist of nothing but Frank Sinatra songs. The cover would be black and white. A picture of a coffee house. And that’s where we met: a coffee house. Classy. He ordered a medium coffee, black. I ordered, well, I don’t remember, but I remember he ordered his coffee black.
After the quick start, after the laughing and the crazy nights and the dreamy eyes, everything slowed. It always does. But mostly you just don’t notice what speed you’re going. Once I fell for him, though, it was all about which love song on the radio reminded me of him. Love is like that. It’s waiting in line to check out in the grocery store and taking all the lovey-dovey quizzes in the trashy magazines. And it’s all about those music videos full of slow-motion shots of two people running their hands along each other’s skin. Once I had fallen, I kept falling – like Alice down the rabbit hole. Incoherent objects and instances flew by me as I fell, for what seemed like eternity. Contrary to popular belief, eternity is actually only 63 days long.
It doesn’t matter anymore what started it. It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, it doesn’t matter why we said it. But I gotta tell you, coming out of love feels a lot more like falling. And I stood on his door step, after the screaming and after the tears. Calm, collected I stood there for a good four minutes. Not moving, just letting the rain soak into my white shirt. Of course it had to be raining; it rained like someone had just died in a Disney movie. And of course I had to be wearing white, because everyone knows you have got to look the most pathetic after a breakup and I don’t think standing in the rain for four minutes in a white shirt could be any more pathetic. It didn’t matter how it ended to me, just that it ended.
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” he had yelled. A cup of black coffee was all I could think about. If you are ever in a coffee house and a man is drinking his coffee black, don’t be intrigued. It’s not a sign of mystery, it’s not a sign of suaveness. Because his heart is as decorated as his coffee. He is empty, which is tricky because even when you attain something empty, you still feel like you’ve gotten something. Don’t be fooled. You can marvel at the pretty package all you want; but eventually you will open it. Empty.
So I got on a plane to the East Coast. I am gonna go wherever I want. I am gonna do whatever I want. When I land in New England, the first thing I’ll do is put on my cutest outfit. Then I am gonna go to the nearest coffee house and stand right next to the cream and sugar.
© teenink.com
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“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me on the sixty-third day after I fell in love.
It started quickly, but it always starts quickly. Love was classic, and love was smooth. If there were a soundtrack to those first four months, it would consist of nothing but Frank Sinatra songs. The cover would be black and white. A picture of a coffee house. And that’s where we met: a coffee house. Classy. He ordered a medium coffee, black. I ordered, well, I don’t remember, but I remember he ordered his coffee black.
After the quick start, after the laughing and the crazy nights and the dreamy eyes, everything slowed. It always does. But mostly you just don’t notice what speed you’re going. Once I fell for him, though, it was all about which love song on the radio reminded me of him. Love is like that. It’s waiting in line to check out in the grocery store and taking all the lovey-dovey quizzes in the trashy magazines. And it’s all about those music videos full of slow-motion shots of two people running their hands along each other’s skin. Once I had fallen, I kept falling – like Alice down the rabbit hole. Incoherent objects and instances flew by me as I fell, for what seemed like eternity. Contrary to popular belief, eternity is actually only 63 days long.
It doesn’t matter anymore what started it. It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, it doesn’t matter why we said it. But I gotta tell you, coming out of love feels a lot more like falling. And I stood on his door step, after the screaming and after the tears. Calm, collected I stood there for a good four minutes. Not moving, just letting the rain soak into my white shirt. Of course it had to be raining; it rained like someone had just died in a Disney movie. And of course I had to be wearing white, because everyone knows you have got to look the most pathetic after a breakup and I don’t think standing in the rain for four minutes in a white shirt could be any more pathetic. It didn’t matter how it ended to me, just that it ended.
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” he had yelled. A cup of black coffee was all I could think about. If you are ever in a coffee house and a man is drinking his coffee black, don’t be intrigued. It’s not a sign of mystery, it’s not a sign of suaveness. Because his heart is as decorated as his coffee. He is empty, which is tricky because even when you attain something empty, you still feel like you’ve gotten something. Don’t be fooled. You can marvel at the pretty package all you want; but eventually you will open it. Empty.
So I got on a plane to the East Coast. I am gonna go wherever I want. I am gonna do whatever I want. When I land in New England, the first thing I’ll do is put on my cutest outfit. Then I am gonna go to the nearest coffee house and stand right next to the cream and sugar.
© teenink.com
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Saturday, May 9
And the world spins madly on
© Masha
A spin on my photo from here.
BTW, the title is a lyric from a great song by The Weepies.
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Thursday, May 7
The car ride home
"I first fell in love when I was 14," this man had told me.
I'm not sure why;
Silence was taboo on this 20-minute drive.
He asked if I had read Gone With the Wind.
No, I told him.
"You should," he replied,
"Those kinds of stories are good for your age.
That's when I read them." And then he proceeded
To tell me about his first love.
"I dated her for two weeks.
Man, 14," he repeated.
I smiled and read the license plates of cars we passed by.
"We held hands and all of that."
I looked down at my legs
And watched the sun burn the car leather right where I sat.
I usually hate these lazy scorching May afternoons -
always more of a winter girl -
but today was different.
"And walked in the park late under the moon."
He laughed.
With his left hand on the wheel,
He left the other motionless on the side
Still unable to break the habit of his old stickshift.
"I even cried
About her. Once. But after two weeks,
I was done."
His happy nostalgic smile nicely complemented his graying hair
Which looked white under the sun.
He wasn't old or anything;
He had a 10 year old daughter
And a worrying wife
Who, like a gypsy with her ash-black hair,
Looked flawless every day
With another on the way;
Above all, she was kind.
"Her I married within a month," he told me.
"Didn't want to wait too long
And change my mind.
Again."
But there's no feeling quite as high as that first love, he said as we pulled up to a red light.
Cars crawled like ants into the intersection
With men and women and children
Behind the wheel,
Killing time and thinking
And talking and smoking and drinking.
I wondered if any of them were also remembering their teenage girlfriends.
"What about you? Have you ever been in love?
And I mean like, real, crazy,
Pull-your-hair-out love?"
As he said this, his eyes flashed
Like this love thing was the greatest ever.
I could have said "Oh, don't I know it!"
I could have told him about
The Italian pizza I bought us for takeout.
I could have said, "Funny you ask,"
And told him about the books we planned to read
And the frozen yogurt
And the stolen bikes
And, of course, his grandfather's spoon.
I could have shown him my worn-out eyes
And remembered that morning I was sleepy but happy
After a long and perfect night.
I could have said, "Don't get me started!"
And told him about the day that we parted
And the strangely rectangular shape of his head
During all those horrible things that were said
Instead of a proper goodbye.
I could have chuckled and sighed.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No," I lied.
Continue reading >>
I'm not sure why;
Silence was taboo on this 20-minute drive.
He asked if I had read Gone With the Wind.
No, I told him.
"You should," he replied,
"Those kinds of stories are good for your age.
That's when I read them." And then he proceeded
To tell me about his first love.
"I dated her for two weeks.
Man, 14," he repeated.
I smiled and read the license plates of cars we passed by.
"We held hands and all of that."
I looked down at my legs
And watched the sun burn the car leather right where I sat.
I usually hate these lazy scorching May afternoons -
always more of a winter girl -
but today was different.
"And walked in the park late under the moon."
He laughed.
With his left hand on the wheel,
He left the other motionless on the side
Still unable to break the habit of his old stickshift.
"I even cried
About her. Once. But after two weeks,
I was done."
His happy nostalgic smile nicely complemented his graying hair
Which looked white under the sun.
He wasn't old or anything;
He had a 10 year old daughter
And a worrying wife
Who, like a gypsy with her ash-black hair,
Looked flawless every day
With another on the way;
Above all, she was kind.
"Her I married within a month," he told me.
"Didn't want to wait too long
And change my mind.
Again."
But there's no feeling quite as high as that first love, he said as we pulled up to a red light.
Cars crawled like ants into the intersection
With men and women and children
Behind the wheel,
Killing time and thinking
And talking and smoking and drinking.
I wondered if any of them were also remembering their teenage girlfriends.
"What about you? Have you ever been in love?
And I mean like, real, crazy,
Pull-your-hair-out love?"
As he said this, his eyes flashed
Like this love thing was the greatest ever.
I could have said "Oh, don't I know it!"
I could have told him about
The Italian pizza I bought us for takeout.
I could have said, "Funny you ask,"
And told him about the books we planned to read
And the frozen yogurt
And the stolen bikes
And, of course, his grandfather's spoon.
I could have shown him my worn-out eyes
And remembered that morning I was sleepy but happy
After a long and perfect night.
I could have said, "Don't get me started!"
And told him about the day that we parted
And the strangely rectangular shape of his head
During all those horrible things that were said
Instead of a proper goodbye.
I could have chuckled and sighed.
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No," I lied.
Continue reading >>
Wednesday, May 6
Whoever thought of chicken soup obviously never had Bailey's
Because, let's be honest, the soup kinda tastes like oil and shoelaces. Bailey's, on the other hand, tastes like chocolate wrapped in sunshine. The taste of alcohol is almost unnoticeable, but the mixture still has that dazed-dizzy-but-completely-relaxed effect on the body and the mind.
The reason I bring this up is that I'm having a hard time dealing with what happened. I want to think about all of it at once and never remember it again at the same time. To avoid falling into a mopyteenagercoma when I'm left to myself, I do what I do best - draw, write, paint, sing, play, make, bake, whatever - but all of that somehow seems to relate back to the brooding thoughts that pound at the back of my mind where I left them to rot and fester. So I decided there's no use fighting them anymore. But there is a healthy way of letting them seep out on their own, and that's why I'm creating a special segment in my blog that will hopefully let me express everything I want implicitly. It's a collection of poems, paintings, and short stories, some by me and some by people who've had similar experiences. I'm hoping to recreate that feeling left by Bailey's that is so carefree and intoxicating, you'd swear you just jogged off five pounds of cellulite and are now having your celebratory cake.
As a side note: it's difficult to publish stuff that's very personal. The reason I created the blog is because I wanted people to hear what I had to say, but there are many things I write every day that will never be seen by anybody else. I could just as easily have kept these poems and stories private, but I think it'll be easier for me to get over if I'm not the only one looking at them. Maybe if I allow it to fester out there rather than in here, under the judgmental condescending eyes of people who probably don't relate and will likely misunderstand, I won't feel confined to my own contemplations. Or maybe I'll find people that do relate, and help them out as well.
Here is something to start things off (and also because it's 11:46 in the night before my morning english lit exam). Who needs poultry? I'll take a shot of the Irish Creme.
Chalk by Rebecca Ann Brown, 13
Love is like a piece of chalk
First it's brand new
Never been used
Then
With time
It fades away slowly
Until there is nothing left
But a small, tiny piece
That cannot be held anymore
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Monday, May 4
List of the Week
A lot has happened recently. Or to be more honest, not much has happened but a lot has changed. In any case, I'll be posting details of this bit by bit over the next few days, but to get me started here is the official Monday list. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for this genius creation, but I saw it on an advertisement in an airport cafe many years ago and still think whoever wrote it deserves the Pulitzer prize. Or at least a booty shake.
25 Reasons why Chocolate is Better than a Man
Check out the poster here. Forget men, give me a Milky Way.
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25 Reasons why Chocolate is Better than a Man
- Chocolate is rich, dark, and satisfying.
- You're never disappointed when you open the wrapper.
- Chocolate doesn't care how many pieces you've eaten before.
- Chocolate always hits the spot.
- Chocolate doesn't always secretly want to be eaten by your best friend.
- Chocolate doesn't think the shopping channel is stupid.
- Chocolate always smells good.
- Chocolate won't ask "Am I the best?" or "How was it?"
- It doesn't sulk when you don't want it first thing in the morning.
- Chocolates are easy to pick up.
- Chocolate satisfies even when it has gone soft.
- You can suck a piece of chocolate even in front of your mother.
- Chocolate never leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
- Chocolate doesn't mind what time of the month it is.
- You don't mind the brown stains left by chocolate.
- With chocolate, size doesn't really matter. It's always good.
- You can read the label and know what it's made of.
- Chocolates do not wear white socks.
- Chocolate doesn't mind when you bite its nuts.
- With chocolates, you don't have to be a virgin more than once.
- "If you love me you'll swallow that" has real meaning with chocolate.
- You can have more than one chocolate a night without ruining your reputation.
- Chocolate doesn't just think it's smooth.
- Chocolates aren't into rope or leather.
- You can tell just by looking at it, that it hasn't been in anyone else's mouth.
Check out the poster here. Forget men, give me a Milky Way.
Continue reading >>
Sunday, May 3
EARLY list of the week
I will make the official monday List of the Week tomorrow, but since I haven't updated in ten years, this week will have two. So, to kick things off, here is a special Sunday edition.
List of reasons why I love Deniz
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List of reasons why I love Deniz
- She laughs at all of my jokes. Seriously. Even the bad ones.
- Therefore we both have an identical, and purely awesome, sense of humor.
- In the most embarrassing situations, she will make a miserable puppy face and then erupt in sad laughter, which makes everyone around erupt in real laughter and then she forgets why she was sad in the first place
- She is there in all of my sing-trip-and-fall moments, and she never fails to point and elicit this manly BWHA before closing her eyes and holding her stomach because the laughter is so intense it can make her pee
- Her sarcastic moments are so painfully obvious that each time she has one, I remember why I fell in love with this talent that is only perfected by a few.
- She has this magical way of making me laugh after I think I'll never smile again
- She is the most genuine person I've ever met, hands down. She gives the most heartfelt advice even on issues she's never come close to dealing with, and even if that advice is off-base, the idea that she only means the best is enough to heal a real shitty mood
- She says things like "agility" and "booger" in reference to people
- She wanted me to be in her senior showcase dance. So of course I love her for that.
- Her mother's reading list includes comic books, travel magazines, and the Twilight series
- She's going to a college just a few hours away from where I'll be staying, in a state that has a bowling alley. And a mall!
- She falls in love with boys who do nice things, like hold the door or pick up eggshells. Therefore it is not uncommon if she is in love with 6 guys at the same time
- If I do something strange in a public place, like pull my head down to my plate at a restaurant and make whale noises into the glass cup because I like the effect the arrangement of glass makes on my voice, she'll pull her head down and whale along with me
- If I bitch about someone, she bitches about that person using bigger and better words. See reason #8 above
- There aren't enough reasons in the world to describe why I love this ridiculously special person, but if you haven't had the chance to get to know her, you're missing out on a huge chunk of life. It's like going to Great America and not going on Invertigo. So next time you see Deniz, smile and wave, and she'll undoubtedly light up and do the same for you.
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Saturday, May 2
From the confines of a dark, stuffy bedroom
So I caved - I did do some thinking in the past 48 bedridden hours. Because after my stomach was full and my eyes started burning from the TV, there was nothing else left for me to do.
In all this thinking and contemplating, I've figured out the meaning of life. Honestly. I understood the reason we are all here on this earth, living and breathing and avoiding death, the reason we're all struggling to get ahead in school and work and love. The point behind everything. And it's simple. Ready? We do it for happiness. And this isn't a discovery, it was pretty much the first thing we learned in ethics class (after Jahshan's rendition of Plato's "is this a real desk, or isn't it??"). But, just as with all good things, it gets more complicated than just being happy.
For a long time, I used to think love and relationships were the most important thing in the world. Like that quote from Heroes: "So much struggle for meaning, for purpose. And in the end, we find it only in each other." What good is a load of money without anyone to share it with? For me personally, I don't think this outlook will ever change. But lately I've been around different kinds of people - scientists, librarians, donors - people who live for another cause. And then I get to thinking about people like Tibetan monks - I mean, they sit in one position for days and weeks and YEARS and get more kick out of doing that than anything else.
Then maybe happiness is relative for every single individual. This seems like a obvious statement, but someone whose ultimate goal isn't finding love? To me that sounds absurd, to them it makes complete sense. To the people whose craft is the most important thing in their lives, the people that give it their all. And that's where they choose to focus their love: the scientist in his creation, the librarian in the world of knowledge and imagination, the donor in alleviating pain for the greatest number of people. And with all the love they give to their work, they can't possibly equally share it with another person. And this makes sense. They've found their happiness.
Then there are people like me - and I'm assuming this is the majority of us - who really will only find meaning and purpose in each other. When life throws us lemons or limes or whatever other shitty bundle of bitterness it has, we turn to our that one other person for comfort. And if we do find someone who can give us that comfort in any shitty situation, we can say we've truly achieved happiness.
But wait! It still gets more complicated. There is not a single functional relationship without problems. Like a stand-up comedian once said, "if you've never contemplated suicide, you've never been in love; if you've never contemplated murder, you've never had a divorce". Just when we think we've hit that happy peak, everything comes crashing down in another fight or misunderstanding.
And that, right there, is the point: nothing in this world that's worth having comes easy. The scientist goes through countless failed experiments, but calls it 'success in finding what doesn't work'. The monk has every part of his body fall asleep ten times over before he feels that special tingly feeling monks are supposed to feel to reassure themselves that what they're doing is the greatest of all. And we hurt. A lot. We get cheated on, ignored, deserted, forgotten about, taken for granted, lied to, replaced, and rejected. But we put ourselves out there again, and again, and again. And the only reason for that stupid risk is the extremely ridiculous, incomparable happiness that is right up there with love.
So don't give up. Things don't just work out for people even if they are in love. You have to fight for it, work through it, breathe in it. Forget all the "if it's meant to be, it'll work out" crap. True - it does require some chance and luck, and sometimes second chance. But that's all you're going to get - a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Will you stay engaged to Lon, or get into the car and drive your butt back to that town to see Noah?
Don't wait until the chance is gone. Then you will just end up sitting in a dusty classroom as the summer leaves give way to cold September, wondering how in hell two years flew by so fast.
Continue reading >>
In all this thinking and contemplating, I've figured out the meaning of life. Honestly. I understood the reason we are all here on this earth, living and breathing and avoiding death, the reason we're all struggling to get ahead in school and work and love. The point behind everything. And it's simple. Ready? We do it for happiness. And this isn't a discovery, it was pretty much the first thing we learned in ethics class (after Jahshan's rendition of Plato's "is this a real desk, or isn't it??"). But, just as with all good things, it gets more complicated than just being happy.
For a long time, I used to think love and relationships were the most important thing in the world. Like that quote from Heroes: "So much struggle for meaning, for purpose. And in the end, we find it only in each other." What good is a load of money without anyone to share it with? For me personally, I don't think this outlook will ever change. But lately I've been around different kinds of people - scientists, librarians, donors - people who live for another cause. And then I get to thinking about people like Tibetan monks - I mean, they sit in one position for days and weeks and YEARS and get more kick out of doing that than anything else.
Then maybe happiness is relative for every single individual. This seems like a obvious statement, but someone whose ultimate goal isn't finding love? To me that sounds absurd, to them it makes complete sense. To the people whose craft is the most important thing in their lives, the people that give it their all. And that's where they choose to focus their love: the scientist in his creation, the librarian in the world of knowledge and imagination, the donor in alleviating pain for the greatest number of people. And with all the love they give to their work, they can't possibly equally share it with another person. And this makes sense. They've found their happiness.
Then there are people like me - and I'm assuming this is the majority of us - who really will only find meaning and purpose in each other. When life throws us lemons or limes or whatever other shitty bundle of bitterness it has, we turn to our that one other person for comfort. And if we do find someone who can give us that comfort in any shitty situation, we can say we've truly achieved happiness.
But wait! It still gets more complicated. There is not a single functional relationship without problems. Like a stand-up comedian once said, "if you've never contemplated suicide, you've never been in love; if you've never contemplated murder, you've never had a divorce". Just when we think we've hit that happy peak, everything comes crashing down in another fight or misunderstanding.
And that, right there, is the point: nothing in this world that's worth having comes easy. The scientist goes through countless failed experiments, but calls it 'success in finding what doesn't work'. The monk has every part of his body fall asleep ten times over before he feels that special tingly feeling monks are supposed to feel to reassure themselves that what they're doing is the greatest of all. And we hurt. A lot. We get cheated on, ignored, deserted, forgotten about, taken for granted, lied to, replaced, and rejected. But we put ourselves out there again, and again, and again. And the only reason for that stupid risk is the extremely ridiculous, incomparable happiness that is right up there with love.
So don't give up. Things don't just work out for people even if they are in love. You have to fight for it, work through it, breathe in it. Forget all the "if it's meant to be, it'll work out" crap. True - it does require some chance and luck, and sometimes second chance. But that's all you're going to get - a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Will you stay engaged to Lon, or get into the car and drive your butt back to that town to see Noah?
Don't wait until the chance is gone. Then you will just end up sitting in a dusty classroom as the summer leaves give way to cold September, wondering how in hell two years flew by so fast.
Continue reading >>
Thursday, April 30
Poor little piggies get no love
I'm rotting in bed under thick wool covers while the sun is outside having a life. I'm not allowed to shower or wash my hair in case the temperature catapults, my mom's cell died so she took mine and ran off for the day, and I'm missing the last days of spirit week. And the inside of my throat resembles a Georgia O'Keeffe painting.
Every time I swallow, it feels like I'm gargling razor blades. The hospital is absolutely booked because everyone in the entire Bay Area who has sneezed in the past two days decided they have the swine flu, and are now desperately trying to get on the phone with one of the nurses to bitch about their symptoms. My temperature's stable, so that rules out the flu and strep throat. Then what the hell is making it impossible for me to swallow my own spit?
There's a lot to think about, I guess, to kill time. But I think the swelling in my neck is seeping into my brain and my eyes are closing and I want to think about nothing at all. At least when I'm sleeping, my throat rests. When will my mind learn to do the same?
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Every time I swallow, it feels like I'm gargling razor blades. The hospital is absolutely booked because everyone in the entire Bay Area who has sneezed in the past two days decided they have the swine flu, and are now desperately trying to get on the phone with one of the nurses to bitch about their symptoms. My temperature's stable, so that rules out the flu and strep throat. Then what the hell is making it impossible for me to swallow my own spit?
There's a lot to think about, I guess, to kill time. But I think the swelling in my neck is seeping into my brain and my eyes are closing and I want to think about nothing at all. At least when I'm sleeping, my throat rests. When will my mind learn to do the same?
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Sunday, April 26
I know it's been a while. Shut up.
From a scrap of binder paper I found shoved between textbooks, undated, but clearly from junior year:
Was I onto something?
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8:45 AM
"There is no laughter in heaven." - Mark Twain
Laughter is based on sorrow, not happy rainbows. Humor stems from sarcasm, randomness, and tragedy, not joyous peaceful times.
I think I just had a fucking epiphany.
No wonder I'm more comfortable, and I do mean comfortable, having a bit of an attitude or being pissed at the world than just being happy. Happiness is not funny. I always feel awkward when something really good happens because I know it's going to end.
Was I onto something?
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Sunday, March 29
I was going to tell him about a college I got into
me: so guess what
fred: you have a rare but lethal strain of staff flowing througout your body and you wont survive unless i give you a blood transfusion
but its a risky procedure
and it might kill the both of us
me: but you'll do it for ME, right
fred: oh of course
im a bellarmine boy
im a man for others
me: you sit on the couch and play with yourself
dont forget that part
fred: esp the part where im a badass fairy
me: hahahaaha
anyways
GUESS WHAT
fred: oh i wasnt right the first time
shit
No moping can last too long with people like these around.
Continue reading >>
fred: you have a rare but lethal strain of staff flowing througout your body and you wont survive unless i give you a blood transfusion
but its a risky procedure
and it might kill the both of us
me: but you'll do it for ME, right
fred: oh of course
im a bellarmine boy
im a man for others
me: you sit on the couch and play with yourself
dont forget that part
fred: esp the part where im a badass fairy
me: hahahaaha
anyways
GUESS WHAT
fred: oh i wasnt right the first time
shit
No moping can last too long with people like these around.
Continue reading >>
Thursday, March 26
All I can ask for
is that you do what makes you happy. Please, please do it for yourself. There's nothing left for me to want anymore besides start trying to fix what I broke, so you gotta do it. Promise.
Continue reading >>
Monday, March 23
Everything old can be new again - part 1
I'm going to start the tale of an exciting weekend with a story about a funeral. Aside from being a reality check, it completely threw my thought process upside down for the next two days. Last week I got a text from Marina saying that Mr. Foreman, our Tae Kwon Do teacher, died on Saturday of a heart attack. I didn't know how to reply so I just exited the inbox.
I quit Tae Kwon Do in 8th grade, I think. After being promoted to a red belt, something killed my motivation - I felt that was good enough, so I stopped going. My instructor, a black skinny man in his 50s with more energy than a teenager on redbull, always said he saw something special in me, so I didn't talk to him or say goodbye before leaving because I thought I'd feel too ashamed. Ashamed that after four years, I didn't really care about karate anymore.
This man was something else. I can honestly say I have never met anyone like him before in my life, and I'm sure I never will again. His stories, his insanely long, crazy stories made half of who he was. He never, ever stopped talking. As low-grade middle schoolers, Marina and I laughed and complained about how he never shuts up and takes 40 minutes just to tell his students goodbye for the day. But man, we'll never forget his stories. He'd tell them over and over and over again, forgetting he'd told them differently the other 17 times. They were stories about his childhood, whether motivational or just ridiculous, but I was amazed at how such a busy man had enough time to retain and retell these magnificent stories with millions of details.
It wasn't until the funeral and the funeral's speeches that I realized time was what he centered his life around. Time, the only thing in the world that we can't alter in any way, this sacred bittersweet concept that just runs and runs as we all live inside of it. His goal in life, at least one of them, must have been to spend as much time with people as possible before we run out of it. And, if he's lucky, in that time he could say or do something that would be a positive influence on someone's life.
And you know what? Every single person that went up to talk that afternoon - his wife, his son, his best friend, his jazz band members, the national Martial Arts instructors, his students, his fans, of absolutely all races and ages - all said he had changed their lives for good.
He was completely healthy. He could do every possible stretch and position karate required of you, and he'd always tell us to take our vitamins. "Don't forget to take your vitamins," he'd yell as we walked out the door drenched in sweat and maybe sporting a bruise or two. And then one day, his heart failed.
A stinky blog post is not enough to describe this man. Even if you ask me in person, I will not find words to describe this man. That Saturday afternoon, all I could think about was Why did this have to happen to him? He could have passed on his unique gift to so many more people. It wasn't his time yet. A very tall, black man with a gruff voice bawled like a baby as he stood at the open casket, telling us about Mr. Foreman's god-sent presence in his life. That's what got to me. I hate crying in public places, but this was brutal. It was too much; standing next to Marina, also sniffling, I felt more alone than I ever had.
And then they sang. A woman came up to the microphone and started an a capella version of The Staple Singers' "I'll Take You There", and Mr. Foreman's band members brought in the instruments. She asked all of us to join in as well. At first, everyone was either too shy or uncomfortable to belt out along with her, but after the chorus she had the whole room clapping to the beat and repeating the key line. If you don't know which song I'm talking about, check it out here. This is a few of the lyrics:
She concluded by saying she believed this is where our teacher and friend is now, at this place. An aura of tension relief and hope was almost tangible as it spread out among the attendees. In a room full of strangers, I felt like something now connected me to each of them. Moreover, for that moment I felt connected to every person on this earth - because ultimately, we all want the same thing: happiness and the peace of mind that comes along with it.
We had to leave the funeral a bit early to make it to my mother's office on time, but I felt strangely redeemed. Someone like Mr. Foreman must be in a place like that, he deserves nothing less. It would be an understatement to say his time on earth has gone toward a great cause; we will always remember his lessons, and when the time comes, we'll pass them on to our children. Thank you for everything you have done, even to those who didn't appreciate it at the time.
Continue reading >>
I quit Tae Kwon Do in 8th grade, I think. After being promoted to a red belt, something killed my motivation - I felt that was good enough, so I stopped going. My instructor, a black skinny man in his 50s with more energy than a teenager on redbull, always said he saw something special in me, so I didn't talk to him or say goodbye before leaving because I thought I'd feel too ashamed. Ashamed that after four years, I didn't really care about karate anymore.
This man was something else. I can honestly say I have never met anyone like him before in my life, and I'm sure I never will again. His stories, his insanely long, crazy stories made half of who he was. He never, ever stopped talking. As low-grade middle schoolers, Marina and I laughed and complained about how he never shuts up and takes 40 minutes just to tell his students goodbye for the day. But man, we'll never forget his stories. He'd tell them over and over and over again, forgetting he'd told them differently the other 17 times. They were stories about his childhood, whether motivational or just ridiculous, but I was amazed at how such a busy man had enough time to retain and retell these magnificent stories with millions of details.
It wasn't until the funeral and the funeral's speeches that I realized time was what he centered his life around. Time, the only thing in the world that we can't alter in any way, this sacred bittersweet concept that just runs and runs as we all live inside of it. His goal in life, at least one of them, must have been to spend as much time with people as possible before we run out of it. And, if he's lucky, in that time he could say or do something that would be a positive influence on someone's life.
And you know what? Every single person that went up to talk that afternoon - his wife, his son, his best friend, his jazz band members, the national Martial Arts instructors, his students, his fans, of absolutely all races and ages - all said he had changed their lives for good.
He was completely healthy. He could do every possible stretch and position karate required of you, and he'd always tell us to take our vitamins. "Don't forget to take your vitamins," he'd yell as we walked out the door drenched in sweat and maybe sporting a bruise or two. And then one day, his heart failed.
A stinky blog post is not enough to describe this man. Even if you ask me in person, I will not find words to describe this man. That Saturday afternoon, all I could think about was Why did this have to happen to him? He could have passed on his unique gift to so many more people. It wasn't his time yet. A very tall, black man with a gruff voice bawled like a baby as he stood at the open casket, telling us about Mr. Foreman's god-sent presence in his life. That's what got to me. I hate crying in public places, but this was brutal. It was too much; standing next to Marina, also sniffling, I felt more alone than I ever had.
And then they sang. A woman came up to the microphone and started an a capella version of The Staple Singers' "I'll Take You There", and Mr. Foreman's band members brought in the instruments. She asked all of us to join in as well. At first, everyone was either too shy or uncomfortable to belt out along with her, but after the chorus she had the whole room clapping to the beat and repeating the key line. If you don't know which song I'm talking about, check it out here. This is a few of the lyrics:
Oh . . . mmm
I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin'
Ain't nobody worried
Ain't no smilin' faces,
Mmm, no no
Lyin' to the races
Help me, come on, come on
Somebody, help me now
(I'll take you there)
Help me, ya'all
(I'll take you there)
Help me now
(I'll take you there)
Oh!
(I'll take you there)
Oh! Oh! Mercy!
(I'll take you there)
Oh, let me take you there
(I'll take you there)
She concluded by saying she believed this is where our teacher and friend is now, at this place. An aura of tension relief and hope was almost tangible as it spread out among the attendees. In a room full of strangers, I felt like something now connected me to each of them. Moreover, for that moment I felt connected to every person on this earth - because ultimately, we all want the same thing: happiness and the peace of mind that comes along with it.
We had to leave the funeral a bit early to make it to my mother's office on time, but I felt strangely redeemed. Someone like Mr. Foreman must be in a place like that, he deserves nothing less. It would be an understatement to say his time on earth has gone toward a great cause; we will always remember his lessons, and when the time comes, we'll pass them on to our children. Thank you for everything you have done, even to those who didn't appreciate it at the time.
Continue reading >>
Sunday, March 22
Wind, sun, and a whole lotta dirty fun
Dirty because our feet looked like we were African, and there's still sand in my shoes and jeans.
The past two days were spent at the beach in Aptos. I'll write a detailed post about the events (and trust me, there is definitely something to write about) tomorrow, but for now, here are a few photos with the lovely Nikon D200. Facebook kills picture quality.
Continue reading >>
The past two days were spent at the beach in Aptos. I'll write a detailed post about the events (and trust me, there is definitely something to write about) tomorrow, but for now, here are a few photos with the lovely Nikon D200. Facebook kills picture quality.
Continue reading >>
Friday, March 20
A bad case of senioritis
So I just watched High School Musical 3 (YES, you read that right, now shut up before we dig inside your TiVo) and just feel so damn depressed. Vanessa Hudgens' character got accepted into Stanford's whizkids-only early orientation shindig, and she goes to freakin' East High. You know, the East High? No? Me neither.
This is not so much about Stanford as it is about the past four years of my life. I sacrificed a lot academically to have the outside-of-school experience that I did, but in the end end, was it worth it? I'm not talking about partying - I have been to maybe three parties in my life total. It's about people. There are so many things I let go, so many opportunities I turned down because my emotions told me to do so. It'll be fine, I thought. Stanford was never even on my list. My grades are passable for a school I'd actually want to go to.
And now it's four years later, and where have I ended up? On my couch in my Harker sweatpants on a Friday night, watching High School Musical. My name is Masha, and I am a lame-ass. Hells yeah to the rooftops!
It's too late to change anything. It probably isn't, and it's probably a really bad idea to let my grades drop now when overpopulated colleges can take back their acceptances at any moment, but I'm going to ignore that fact because I'm done. I'm milked to the max, pooped out, you name it. Laziness talking? Perhaps. Or perhaps instead of motivating me to pick up my game, all this college talk has been the last straw. Just in the past month, I've experienced enough physical and emotional stress to last me through college and then some.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I paid more attention to school. I used to be a straight-A+ student in middle school, you know. How did I get to a place where a B- on a math test was celebrated? I wonder how different things would have been if I cared more.
And then I decide that they wouldn't be different at all. This is who I am, this is who I always was and would end up to be no matter who walked in and out of my life. This lazy, sweet, optimistic, cynical, overdramatic, practical, and very very vulnerable person is me. And if Stanford doesn't take me, they can just suck it.
The part that really got to me was in the end, when Troy chose Berkeley to be close to Gabriella. Why can't things be as simple as in a high school musical?
Continue reading >>
This is not so much about Stanford as it is about the past four years of my life. I sacrificed a lot academically to have the outside-of-school experience that I did, but in the end end, was it worth it? I'm not talking about partying - I have been to maybe three parties in my life total. It's about people. There are so many things I let go, so many opportunities I turned down because my emotions told me to do so. It'll be fine, I thought. Stanford was never even on my list. My grades are passable for a school I'd actually want to go to.
And now it's four years later, and where have I ended up? On my couch in my Harker sweatpants on a Friday night, watching High School Musical. My name is Masha, and I am a lame-ass. Hells yeah to the rooftops!
It's too late to change anything. It probably isn't, and it's probably a really bad idea to let my grades drop now when overpopulated colleges can take back their acceptances at any moment, but I'm going to ignore that fact because I'm done. I'm milked to the max, pooped out, you name it. Laziness talking? Perhaps. Or perhaps instead of motivating me to pick up my game, all this college talk has been the last straw. Just in the past month, I've experienced enough physical and emotional stress to last me through college and then some.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I paid more attention to school. I used to be a straight-A+ student in middle school, you know. How did I get to a place where a B- on a math test was celebrated? I wonder how different things would have been if I cared more.
And then I decide that they wouldn't be different at all. This is who I am, this is who I always was and would end up to be no matter who walked in and out of my life. This lazy, sweet, optimistic, cynical, overdramatic, practical, and very very vulnerable person is me. And if Stanford doesn't take me, they can just suck it.
The part that really got to me was in the end, when Troy chose Berkeley to be close to Gabriella. Why can't things be as simple as in a high school musical?
Continue reading >>
Wednesday, March 18
List of the Week
Masha, Deniz, and Kaytee's list of deal breakers for potential relationships
List of things we like
Continue reading >>
- Guys who talk about things they did with their exes - "these girls probably won't want their ex-boyfriends talking about them like that," said KT, "and I really don't want to hear about it."
- Guys who just keep talking about themselves and don't ask questions - "they don't actually honestly care about what you do," KT exclaimed. (She really got into this)
- Guys who don't open the door for you - can you guess which one of us suggested this one?
- Guys who swear too much, because they're usually just trying to sound cool
- Guys to talk crap about their friends. I actually didn't believe this one because I thought guy bonds were the strongest, but if this is true, you are messed up.
- Guys who eat messily
- Guys who are too conceited
- Guys who have a swagger walk - "Not thinking of anyone in particular," said KT while looking outside the yearbook room at a passerby, limping like a wangster ("or a chigga," adds Stephanie as I'm writing this post)
- Addendum to #8: Guys whose pants are ridiculously baggy
- Guys who frequently tease girls that they like (Masha doesn't mind this one)
- Guys who lie. Just no excuse.
- Guys who talk too much. ex: "Hey that reminds me of a time when..." each time you start a story
- Guys who show up late on dates - "It's OK if they're picking you up, but not when you're meeting them somewhere," KT clarifies.
- Guys who think 5-year-old jokes are funny (KT is okay with this one)
- Guys who treat you like you're 5 years old
List of things we like
- Guys who treat their sisters well. :)
Continue reading >>
Monday, March 16
Lipstick red
I've always loved the vibrance of this photo.
It was in Russia two summers ago, I think. The flower was illuminated to look almost poisonous, deadly.
There's something about this color that's always intoxicated my eyes. A deep, pure red that you can't look away from. I think this unconditional pull is what makes it so lethal, and, at the same time, what pushes some people away. For me, it represents life's most vital aspects: passion, excitement, spontaneity, danger, happiness. Danger because it is the color of blood, happiness because it is the color of love.
It takes a real vixen to wear red. Not everyone can do it. I'm not talking about some maroon tank top, I mean a real lipstick-red dress that breaks everyone's necks as they turn to get a good look. It's a color that can make you or break you. Diva or clown? If you try, you're shooting yourself in the foot. In red, sexy comes effortless.
That's why I love it. You can't fake sexiness in red. You end up looking trashy. The color will expose your every curve, every hint of doubt, every imperfection. So you have to own it on the inside. Be the diva, be fierce. Genuine confidence goes a long way.
Continue reading >>
Sunday, March 15
559
That's the number of new emails I have, according to my Gmail inbox.
It has been 559 for quite a while. All the emails on the first page are read, and I make a point to either click on or delete new mail that finds is way into my humble chocolate cupcake account. And yet this number keeps growing. I don't understand how this is physically possible if I consciously take care of every new email. It's one of those life's unsolved mysteries, like how even when you completely untangle your iPod headphones and set them down on a table, they will have 23509343 knots when you pick them up five minutes later.
559. That's a lot of words written to me I haven't read. I don't have to click through my archives to know most of them are either from Facebook, a store I signed up at for the 10% discount, or Mr. Molin's eagle updates. A few are actually important, that I mentally check off to read later but (obviously) forget. Like college counseling stuff. It's safe to say I prioritized horribly first semester senior year, hurting not only myself in the present but possibly screwing up my future.
Today I got into New York University. It has been my first choice ever since I learned that the city of New York exists - I dreamt of catching a taxi under the fancy lights of Broadway Carrie-Bradshaw style, and being able to go to school there seemed unreal. Too perfectly amazing. Somehow, I didn't even need to know the criteria to be accepted at the University. No matter what my grades turned out to be, I knew I'd get in. I know what all you psych nerds are going to say - hindsight bias, when I say I knew something would happen after it already occurred. Well, believe it if you want, but NYU was the only school I didn't doubt.
And then something happened. A lot of things happened specifically, but this one somehow snuck right past my conscious and burned itself into my brain before I could realize what was going on. I'm not about to go into the details of how my decisions affected my moral outlook on life and myself, but in a nutshell, I'm not ready. I don't fully trust myself in one of the most exciting lively overflowing-with-opportunities cities in the world. I love New York, but it will have to wait. I'm sure a chance will present itself in the future when I'm more set on what I want in life, and when it does, I'll take it without looking back.
559 meaningless emails taking up space in my memory. I can't even find the time to clean up and get organized electronically, let alone manually or mentally or any other kind of realm of thought. I always keep a Gmail tab open; when that number changes to 560, for the two or three seconds that come between my brain processing this information and my finger moving the cursor to the email tab, I feel important. That's an understatement; I don't feel alone. And then I click the page and read the subject line to find out that Questia is offering another manage-your-stress quiz, and all my feelings of individualism evaporate. Then the number goes back to 559.
And that's good. It's more than halfway there, but it's not quite there yet. Just like my thought process. It's about time one of those things had a constant.
Continue reading >>
It has been 559 for quite a while. All the emails on the first page are read, and I make a point to either click on or delete new mail that finds is way into my humble chocolate cupcake account. And yet this number keeps growing. I don't understand how this is physically possible if I consciously take care of every new email. It's one of those life's unsolved mysteries, like how even when you completely untangle your iPod headphones and set them down on a table, they will have 23509343 knots when you pick them up five minutes later.
559. That's a lot of words written to me I haven't read. I don't have to click through my archives to know most of them are either from Facebook, a store I signed up at for the 10% discount, or Mr. Molin's eagle updates. A few are actually important, that I mentally check off to read later but (obviously) forget. Like college counseling stuff. It's safe to say I prioritized horribly first semester senior year, hurting not only myself in the present but possibly screwing up my future.
Today I got into New York University. It has been my first choice ever since I learned that the city of New York exists - I dreamt of catching a taxi under the fancy lights of Broadway Carrie-Bradshaw style, and being able to go to school there seemed unreal. Too perfectly amazing. Somehow, I didn't even need to know the criteria to be accepted at the University. No matter what my grades turned out to be, I knew I'd get in. I know what all you psych nerds are going to say - hindsight bias, when I say I knew something would happen after it already occurred. Well, believe it if you want, but NYU was the only school I didn't doubt.
And then something happened. A lot of things happened specifically, but this one somehow snuck right past my conscious and burned itself into my brain before I could realize what was going on. I'm not about to go into the details of how my decisions affected my moral outlook on life and myself, but in a nutshell, I'm not ready. I don't fully trust myself in one of the most exciting lively overflowing-with-opportunities cities in the world. I love New York, but it will have to wait. I'm sure a chance will present itself in the future when I'm more set on what I want in life, and when it does, I'll take it without looking back.
559 meaningless emails taking up space in my memory. I can't even find the time to clean up and get organized electronically, let alone manually or mentally or any other kind of realm of thought. I always keep a Gmail tab open; when that number changes to 560, for the two or three seconds that come between my brain processing this information and my finger moving the cursor to the email tab, I feel important. That's an understatement; I don't feel alone. And then I click the page and read the subject line to find out that Questia is offering another manage-your-stress quiz, and all my feelings of individualism evaporate. Then the number goes back to 559.
And that's good. It's more than halfway there, but it's not quite there yet. Just like my thought process. It's about time one of those things had a constant.
Continue reading >>
Saturday, March 14
How I spent my Friday
Missing school on a Friday is awesome. You know what's even more awesome? Missing school because you're lying in bed with a temperature of 101.8 and a body-shaking, eye-watering, furniture-trembling cough. Add the fact that you can't swallow anything but warm liquid because your tonsils have swelled up so much it feels like you're gargling razor blades, and you've got a pretty good description of my Friday. TGIF, man!
Doctor says it's not strep throat, at least. Maybe bronchitis. Hopefully not mono. I'm taking this gift from God rather well, sleeping about 18 out of 24 hours with Foofie my huge white stuffed bear, watching some HBO. Okay, I was actually too weak to watch TV yesterday so I just wept silently into my pillow wheezing woe is me.
Then, at 3:25, a phone call woke me up. I didn't mind much since I've pretty much slept the entire day. The call was from Friend, who was apparently standing outside our apartments for the past hour trying to get inside his house. Apparently, he fell asleep at 11 at somebody's house and was later carried into the car and driven home; his mom, when he called her around 2 AM to open the door, didn't want to believe his story and continued sleeping. "Brrrrwwwrwrwrrr it's cooooooold," he stammered into the phone. I felt so bad for the guy, I offered to sneak him out a jacket and maybe a cup of hot tea, but he refused, saying I was too sick and he shouldn't have woken me up in the first place.
We hung up so that he could try calling his mom again. I couldn't help it; I peeked through my blinds at his sorry figure knocking on the door over and over again, with his thin Abercrombie hood barely covering his large head and disproportionally small ears. But they were cute ears. Ears that were now surely about to turn blue and fall off. After ten minutes, he called me again, but his phone died in the middle of a sentence. In a mad fit of rage, he banged on his mother's window. She must have said something, because he growled "I've been standing here for an hour" in response. The banging must have pissed her off because soon enough, the door opened and Friend disappeared behind it.
He called me a few minutes later after plugging in his phone. I'm not sure why; I could barely make out any words in his half-assed whispering, and after about 30 seconds he gave up and told me goodnight.
I couldn't fall asleep for about two hours after that. It was probably because I got way more sleep than my system needed, but I was thinking. And, in case you weren't aware, we can't fall asleep if we're consciously thinking, thinking and imagining scenarios and situations on new levels that our contemplation has taken us on. When you put it into perspective, I thought, my day wasn't so bad. I can't imagine living a life where I wouldn't even be able to come home on a Friday night in the afterhours because my mother doesn't want to open the door. Then again, Friend loves his life. Or does he? Being the total opposites that we are and having gotten a taste of each other's worlds, which one of us is truly happy?
That night, I had a strange dream where I came out with a cup of lemon tea and my large beige jacket, but Friend had already gone into the house. Disappointed at all my hard work of stealthily walking out the front door unnoticed, I was about to turn back - when I saw him with a pillow and blanket inside his mom's car (which, in my dream, had transformed itself into a convertible). "She made me sleep outside," he half-smiled. Although I should have been horrified, I was a bit glad my efforts didn't go to waste. And then I woke up.
Continue reading >>
Doctor says it's not strep throat, at least. Maybe bronchitis. Hopefully not mono. I'm taking this gift from God rather well, sleeping about 18 out of 24 hours with Foofie my huge white stuffed bear, watching some HBO. Okay, I was actually too weak to watch TV yesterday so I just wept silently into my pillow wheezing woe is me.
Then, at 3:25, a phone call woke me up. I didn't mind much since I've pretty much slept the entire day. The call was from Friend, who was apparently standing outside our apartments for the past hour trying to get inside his house. Apparently, he fell asleep at 11 at somebody's house and was later carried into the car and driven home; his mom, when he called her around 2 AM to open the door, didn't want to believe his story and continued sleeping. "Brrrrwwwrwrwrrr it's cooooooold," he stammered into the phone. I felt so bad for the guy, I offered to sneak him out a jacket and maybe a cup of hot tea, but he refused, saying I was too sick and he shouldn't have woken me up in the first place.
We hung up so that he could try calling his mom again. I couldn't help it; I peeked through my blinds at his sorry figure knocking on the door over and over again, with his thin Abercrombie hood barely covering his large head and disproportionally small ears. But they were cute ears. Ears that were now surely about to turn blue and fall off. After ten minutes, he called me again, but his phone died in the middle of a sentence. In a mad fit of rage, he banged on his mother's window. She must have said something, because he growled "I've been standing here for an hour" in response. The banging must have pissed her off because soon enough, the door opened and Friend disappeared behind it.
He called me a few minutes later after plugging in his phone. I'm not sure why; I could barely make out any words in his half-assed whispering, and after about 30 seconds he gave up and told me goodnight.
I couldn't fall asleep for about two hours after that. It was probably because I got way more sleep than my system needed, but I was thinking. And, in case you weren't aware, we can't fall asleep if we're consciously thinking, thinking and imagining scenarios and situations on new levels that our contemplation has taken us on. When you put it into perspective, I thought, my day wasn't so bad. I can't imagine living a life where I wouldn't even be able to come home on a Friday night in the afterhours because my mother doesn't want to open the door. Then again, Friend loves his life. Or does he? Being the total opposites that we are and having gotten a taste of each other's worlds, which one of us is truly happy?
That night, I had a strange dream where I came out with a cup of lemon tea and my large beige jacket, but Friend had already gone into the house. Disappointed at all my hard work of stealthily walking out the front door unnoticed, I was about to turn back - when I saw him with a pillow and blanket inside his mom's car (which, in my dream, had transformed itself into a convertible). "She made me sleep outside," he half-smiled. Although I should have been horrified, I was a bit glad my efforts didn't go to waste. And then I woke up.
Continue reading >>
Thursday, March 12
A day in my life, in haikus
Since I've unfortunately fallen ill this morning, I've taken a couple hours to catch up on writing some poems. This one is about Monday, March 9th.
0:41 AM
Took a leap of faith.
Talking is fun after dark,
Among other things.
5:08 AM
Don't make any noise.
Put your shoes back on downstairs.
"I made it in. Night :)"
11:32 AM
Phone call woke me up.
Do homework? Hell to the no.
He wants a lighter.
12:10 PM
Breakfast at Starbucks,
By myself, contemplating.
Wrote this post right here.
2:29 PM
Still drinking coffee.
"What are you doing?" phone beeps.
I reply. No answer back.
4:41 PM
Invites me to watch
"Kung Fu Panda" at his house.
Different couches.
5:10 PM
Why is this awkward?
We know each other like the
Backs of our hands. Bleh.
6:21 PM
"Wanna have dinner?"
He asks, "in like two hours?"
Hm. What to expect?
6:30 PM
Get home, finally.
Called mother, she's working late.
Killed time on Facebook.
7:30 PM
Homework? Hahaha.
House is eerily quiet
As it waits with me.
8:18 PM
I could eat a bear.
"Meet me outside in three mins".
But I look like shit!
8:21 PM
Cleaned the living room,
Washed the dishes, made myself
Pretty. I am good.
8:40 PM
Deliberation.
Mediterranean? Thai?
Italian? Gah!
8:57 PM
Ordered meat kabob.
Good conversation. About books.
I didn't think he read!
9:23 PM
It's an itch we know
We are gonna scratch, when oh
When will this egg hatch?
9:52 PM
Under the full moon.
Smiles by the little playground.
Arms lock. You smell nice.
10:05 PM
Big plans. Can people
Really change? Priya says so.
Today, I agreed.
11:49 PM
Best weekend ever.
Time to descend from the clouds.
What could go wrong now?
© Me, 3/12/09 Continue reading >>
0:41 AM
Took a leap of faith.
Talking is fun after dark,
Among other things.
5:08 AM
Don't make any noise.
Put your shoes back on downstairs.
"I made it in. Night :)"
11:32 AM
Phone call woke me up.
Do homework? Hell to the no.
He wants a lighter.
12:10 PM
Breakfast at Starbucks,
By myself, contemplating.
Wrote this post right here.
2:29 PM
Still drinking coffee.
"What are you doing?" phone beeps.
I reply. No answer back.
4:41 PM
Invites me to watch
"Kung Fu Panda" at his house.
Different couches.
5:10 PM
Why is this awkward?
We know each other like the
Backs of our hands. Bleh.
6:21 PM
"Wanna have dinner?"
He asks, "in like two hours?"
Hm. What to expect?
6:30 PM
Get home, finally.
Called mother, she's working late.
Killed time on Facebook.
7:30 PM
Homework? Hahaha.
House is eerily quiet
As it waits with me.
8:18 PM
I could eat a bear.
"Meet me outside in three mins".
But I look like shit!
8:21 PM
Cleaned the living room,
Washed the dishes, made myself
Pretty. I am good.
8:40 PM
Deliberation.
Mediterranean? Thai?
Italian? Gah!
8:57 PM
Ordered meat kabob.
Good conversation. About books.
I didn't think he read!
9:23 PM
It's an itch we know
We are gonna scratch, when oh
When will this egg hatch?
9:52 PM
Under the full moon.
Smiles by the little playground.
Arms lock. You smell nice.
10:05 PM
Big plans. Can people
Really change? Priya says so.
Today, I agreed.
11:49 PM
Best weekend ever.
Time to descend from the clouds.
What could go wrong now?
© Me, 3/12/09 Continue reading >>
Wednesday, March 11
It shines like the sacred halo of gold
My first acceptance letter.
I stood crying at the mailbox. No, they were not tears of ecstatic joy that I got into a college, although that is one reason to celebrate. Amidst the otherwise terribly sucky events of the day, I receive the acceptance letter - because I deserve it. There's no bad luck/good luck principle involved, no life-throwing-curveballs shit. I worked for my grades, so I got in.
I presume to conclude that no matter the circumstance, we all get what we deserve.
Continue reading >>
Tuesday, March 10
Too fast and too much
And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
-Fitzgerald
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List of the Week
By popular demand, the 11,002 things to be miserable about are back.
Happy Tuesday!
Continue reading >>
- Cures discovered after a disease has killed a member of your family
- People with a name like Herman Hermanson
- Children who want to be lawyers when they grow up
- The sex lives of early Puritans
- Abandoned conversations
- Fat people who complain that they're skinny
- The book selection at provincial libraries
- Sex scenes with aging actors
- Young Germans who are afraid to ask what their grandparents did
- Journalists who lose their jobs to bloggers (hehehe)
- Poems with secret political agendas
- Scientists paid by tobacco companies to cast doubt on evidence that smoking kills
- Job recruiters finding drunken photos of you on social networking sites
- The 400,000 people on the government's terror watch list
- The mansions of drug lords
- Doctors who rape their patients
- Children who are never invited to birthday parties
- Hurricane Katrina
- The federal government's response to Hurricane Katrina
- Waiting for acceptance letters
Happy Tuesday!
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Monday, March 9
When love is just short of enough
I will warn you from the very beginning that this post will probably end up sappy, unnecessarily dramatic, emotional, and reek of unhappy.
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
Continue reading >>
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
"You know something?"
"Hmm?"
"Every time we're at this point, when things are this good, we think - nothing could go wrong. But it always does."
"I know. I forgot how good it felt to just lie here."
"But why? Why do things always have to go wrong?"
"I think it's because we say it every time. We say, what could possibly go wrong from here? We're jinxing it."
"Mmm."
"It's a vicious cycle."
"But you know what? Screw it. Even if it gets worse, I don't mind as long as we end up back here eventually."
"Yeah. Me neither."
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Sunday, March 8
Saturday, March 7
People watching
On an average saturday, some people go to the gym, do house chores, or meet up with friends. I stalk business women and old Russian men at coffee shops.
I love drawing action scenes. Still life is interesting, but not as exciting as trying to finish the line of the wrist or the curve of the pant leg before your models decide to switch their position. You never know what the end result is going to look like.
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I love drawing action scenes. Still life is interesting, but not as exciting as trying to finish the line of the wrist or the curve of the pant leg before your models decide to switch their position. You never know what the end result is going to look like.
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WTF, in a good way
Can you imagine that this was George Clooney?
What I mean to say is, can you imagine going from that to this?
How people change...
Copyright © 2009 http://20somethingjaz.blogspot.com and © 2005 http://www.collider.com, respectively
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What I mean to say is, can you imagine going from that to this?
How people change...
Copyright © 2009 http://20somethingjaz.blogspot.com and © 2005 http://www.collider.com, respectively
Continue reading >>
Friday, March 6
(The much overdue) List of the Week
This week's List of the Week, inspired by my recent outing to see He's Just Not That Into You, is designed to serve as a first-date manual for how to NOT make yourself seem nuttier than a jar of chunky peanut butter. Sorry, boys. This list is femme-oriented.
Questions you shouldn’t ask even though you really want to
Questions you should probably ask for lack of anything else remotely interesting
Questions too inappropriate for the ‘don’t ask’ category
Questions you should ask if your date is a jackass, smoker, or a complete tool, and you want to drive him away
Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.
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Questions you shouldn’t ask even though you really want to
- Are you comfortable using the word “hot” to describe a guy? What about, like, Johnny Depp?
- Will you be shocked/disappointed/delighted/indifferent (circle one) to find out I swear like a sailor?
- Are you a long-distance-relationship kinda guy?
- Does your room look like the violent end of the Cold War?
- Do you know how to spell in text messages?
- How often do you shower? Honestly now?
- Do you agree that Valentine’s Day is a shameless consumer holiday with no real romantic substance whatsoever?
- What would you say if I told you I can’t go a day without singing and must practice my vocal skills at hourly intervals with tunes from “Chicago” and “Hairspray”?
- Do you have a weird infatuation with comic books or some other 8th-grade-boy crap?
- Please identify the following cultural references so I know I can hang around you for more than an hour without awkward silences:
- “What has two thumbs and doesn’t give a crap?”
- “We were on a break!”
- “Doesn’t any of this look familiar?” “Well yeah! Here is my favorite leaf. How could I forget this place?”
- “I doubt she gave you the stink eye. That’s just how her face looks, you know? That’s just her face.”
- “And then he ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times.”
Questions you should probably ask for lack of anything else remotely interesting
- What was the last good, and I mean friggin’ good, movie you saw?
- What do you want to do in ten years?
- If you could pick any place in the world, where would you live?
- What’s playing on your iPod right now?
- Cats or dogs?
- What’s the last book you read for pleasure?
- Chocolate or vanilla? What, vanilla? Excuse me, I have to go home to take care of my sick sister.
Questions too inappropriate for the ‘don’t ask’ category
- Are you Catholic? Like devoted Catholic or fallen-from-the-grace-of-God Catholic?
- If you chose option 2 in the previous question, how long does your silly little mind reckon it’ll take you to get in my pants?
- Do you have any warts, lesions, pimples, and/or backne in unusual places that I should know about?
- Have you ever shopped at stores like Spencer’s or Hot Stuff? If so, what articles did you purchase?
- Is that a beer gut, or are you going to tell me you’re big-boned?
- Have you ever named your privates (if you answer “no”, you’re a liar), and did the name(s) include any combination of Jack, Richard, Pee-Wee, Gladiator, or Massive Sword of Masculinity?
Questions you should ask if your date is a jackass, smoker, or a complete tool, and you want to drive him away
- You’re cool with dating a commie, right?
- Have you ever seen a used tampon? If you’re curious, I’m about to go to the bathroom and take one out right now, I can wrap it in toilet paper and show you if you’d like. They’re really quite mesmerizing.
- What money limit do you want to set on gifts when we go Christmas shopping for each other next year?
- You like Kanye? Get outta here, so did my ex-boyfriend! Quick, what do you shave with? – maybe your favorite razor brand matches, too!
- Can you try to be more like Edward Cullen?
- What do you mean, who’s Edward Cullen? Did you not do your homework before going on this date?!
- When do you want to get married? I think two years from now would be good, we’d have just enough time to book the wedding band and pick out the cake decorations.
- Are you cool with meeting my mother tomorrow? And don't worry, I informed her you’re coming, she already shaved her legs.
Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.
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