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 >>
Sunday, March 29
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
Continue reading >>
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!
Continue reading >>
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."
Continue reading >>
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.
Continue reading >>
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.
Continue reading >>
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
Continue reading >>
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.
Continue reading >>
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.
Continue reading >>
Irony's a bitchass ho
Saturday night was one of the worst nights I've ever experienced. Thanks to it, I didn't do any homework (well, this is actually thanks to my intense passion for procrastination), screwed up my job interview, disappointed people I really care about, developed bags under my eyes, and became ridiculously sick. Who wants to live my life again? Come on, anyone? Don't be shy now!
It started when I told my mother I'd be having a sleepover. Actually it started when I was stranded at Valley Fair for two and a half hours because Marina's seven pairs of size 0 jeans no longer fit her 18-year-old ass. I love her to death, but her we're-not-leaving-until-I-buy-jeans-and-OOH-that's-a-pretty-dress cost me my evening plans. Still, she wasn't the only stubborn one. I was determined to spend the night with Friend at Half Moon Bay, I was determined to get my mom's car, and I was dead set on doing this that night.
"I have a life too you know!!" was mother's response when I asked her for the keys. Really, my argument was flawless - drive up for a sleepover (really, mom, I'm sure you must be tired by this hour) and return home in the morning for my second Starbucks interview. In reality, I'd drive up to the beach and have one of those coveted second-semester-senior spontaneous absolutely crazy once-in-a-lifetime adventures.
Um, right. If anyone has lived on our lovely earth, they'd know that the only time things fall into place for that kind of night is in the cinema. For the first time in the nine years, my mother decided to go out. To the bar, to her boyfriend, to the club with her boyfriend - whatever. Why tonight? Beats the crap outta me. Point is, she drove me to my friend's house for the supposed sleepover around 9 and left to go party.
That's okay, the naive little saturday-night me still thinks. I'll have Friend pick me up and we could still make it happen. Except, of course, I'd have to deal with the fact that the house I was "sleeping" in was located up on a mountain in a different city in pitch-black darkness. I had trouble finding it even with the GPS. When Friend called, I explained the situation and gave up, saying I'd just have my mother pick me up on her way back from wherever. "No, wutchu talking about! Tell her you're sleeping over and I'll come get you!" Claiming he had a sober driver, a car, and a GPS inside that car, he convinced me to completely rely on him.
12 PM. Friend's phone goes straight to voice mail when called. Other friend, the one whose house I was in, was being very generous but increasingly sleepy, and her parents were starting to wonder when I was going to go home. Soon, soon, I kept telling them. I'm going to kill him, I decided.
1 PM. I suggested we go onto her bed since her eyes were closing. The guilt was eating me up inside. Friend finally called saying he found a charger for his "dead phone", and he was going to come get me if only I'd text him step-by-step directions on how to get to the house. But sweetie, I growled, what about the GPS? GPS, my ass. I had no other choice but to text him the street names. The girl's mom was making sure for the 6th time I didn't need her to drive me home herself.
Half an hour later, I was in the car with four people, two of whom were passed out in the back seat. Wonderful. We drove to a park near my house where we stupidly got out of the car and froze our butts off on the benches. That was even more fun than waiting to get picked up. And oh, how could I not mention the highlight of the night - when I sat behind the wheel because Friend decided he wanted Jack in the Box, and the original driver was making out with her boyfriend on the grass, the cops pulled up right behind us at the drive-through window. I still have a provisional license, see. My heart hadn't done that many leaps since season 3 of LOST came out on DVD.
I suppose the best, and the only good, part of the night was how Friend behaved himself. The first thing he asked when he picked me up is if I had a place to stay, and if not, he'd find me one. I lied and said I'd just crash at Marina's, but he made me call Marina on the spot to make sure. Woke up crabby Marina, arranged plans. Later, he took me on a walk, discussed childhood favorite Nickelodeon shows (Hey Arnold? Anyone?), pushed me out of the way of a 3 AM biker with an obvious death wish with the words "man, if that guy hit you, I woulda... freakin'... well, you know what I would do." He even offered to walk the 20 feet with me to Marina's house (which I politely refused) and texted a few minutes after I left to make sure everything was okay. In other words, he was the perfect friend.
Marina kicked me out at 6 AM saying she had to get up for work. I didn't complain. After making so many things difficult for so many people, I just wanted to get out. It didn't matter that I didn't have a place to go. I'd eat breakfast (and drink lots of coffee) in Starbucks, and tell my mother I was dropped off by the girl's parents when I'd come home around 9.
It didn't help that outside, it was raining out of a bucket. I pulled up my polyester hood and sloshed in my Keds around the parking lot. I wanted to cry. The rain took care of that, though. And, here it is, the big ironic moment of the story -
As I was rounding my house, I glanced at our parking space. My mother's car was not there. I suppose she stayed over at her boyfriend's house, and I could have been home all along.
------------------
The reason I believe I screwed up my Starbucks interview later in the day is because I became ridiculously sick. I'm not sure if it was the rain, the lack of proper clothing under the rain, or the lack of sleep destroying my immune system. In any case, I welcomed the coughing and headache. I've been feeling so pathetic and disgusted at myself lately, I saw this as a way to physically release all my self-hatred. This sounds a lot more depressing than it actually is - I feel I got what I deserved, and balance in my self-concept (another shameless psych plug) is restored.
It has taken me almost one week to write this post. For some reason, I just didn't want to finish it. And I'm still sick.
Continue reading >>
It started when I told my mother I'd be having a sleepover. Actually it started when I was stranded at Valley Fair for two and a half hours because Marina's seven pairs of size 0 jeans no longer fit her 18-year-old ass. I love her to death, but her we're-not-leaving-until-I-buy-jeans-and-OOH-that's-a-pretty-dress cost me my evening plans. Still, she wasn't the only stubborn one. I was determined to spend the night with Friend at Half Moon Bay, I was determined to get my mom's car, and I was dead set on doing this that night.
"I have a life too you know!!" was mother's response when I asked her for the keys. Really, my argument was flawless - drive up for a sleepover (really, mom, I'm sure you must be tired by this hour) and return home in the morning for my second Starbucks interview. In reality, I'd drive up to the beach and have one of those coveted second-semester-senior spontaneous absolutely crazy once-in-a-lifetime adventures.
Um, right. If anyone has lived on our lovely earth, they'd know that the only time things fall into place for that kind of night is in the cinema. For the first time in the nine years, my mother decided to go out. To the bar, to her boyfriend, to the club with her boyfriend - whatever. Why tonight? Beats the crap outta me. Point is, she drove me to my friend's house for the supposed sleepover around 9 and left to go party.
That's okay, the naive little saturday-night me still thinks. I'll have Friend pick me up and we could still make it happen. Except, of course, I'd have to deal with the fact that the house I was "sleeping" in was located up on a mountain in a different city in pitch-black darkness. I had trouble finding it even with the GPS. When Friend called, I explained the situation and gave up, saying I'd just have my mother pick me up on her way back from wherever. "No, wutchu talking about! Tell her you're sleeping over and I'll come get you!" Claiming he had a sober driver, a car, and a GPS inside that car, he convinced me to completely rely on him.
12 PM. Friend's phone goes straight to voice mail when called. Other friend, the one whose house I was in, was being very generous but increasingly sleepy, and her parents were starting to wonder when I was going to go home. Soon, soon, I kept telling them. I'm going to kill him, I decided.
1 PM. I suggested we go onto her bed since her eyes were closing. The guilt was eating me up inside. Friend finally called saying he found a charger for his "dead phone", and he was going to come get me if only I'd text him step-by-step directions on how to get to the house. But sweetie, I growled, what about the GPS? GPS, my ass. I had no other choice but to text him the street names. The girl's mom was making sure for the 6th time I didn't need her to drive me home herself.
Half an hour later, I was in the car with four people, two of whom were passed out in the back seat. Wonderful. We drove to a park near my house where we stupidly got out of the car and froze our butts off on the benches. That was even more fun than waiting to get picked up. And oh, how could I not mention the highlight of the night - when I sat behind the wheel because Friend decided he wanted Jack in the Box, and the original driver was making out with her boyfriend on the grass, the cops pulled up right behind us at the drive-through window. I still have a provisional license, see. My heart hadn't done that many leaps since season 3 of LOST came out on DVD.
I suppose the best, and the only good, part of the night was how Friend behaved himself. The first thing he asked when he picked me up is if I had a place to stay, and if not, he'd find me one. I lied and said I'd just crash at Marina's, but he made me call Marina on the spot to make sure. Woke up crabby Marina, arranged plans. Later, he took me on a walk, discussed childhood favorite Nickelodeon shows (Hey Arnold? Anyone?), pushed me out of the way of a 3 AM biker with an obvious death wish with the words "man, if that guy hit you, I woulda... freakin'... well, you know what I would do." He even offered to walk the 20 feet with me to Marina's house (which I politely refused) and texted a few minutes after I left to make sure everything was okay. In other words, he was the perfect friend.
Marina kicked me out at 6 AM saying she had to get up for work. I didn't complain. After making so many things difficult for so many people, I just wanted to get out. It didn't matter that I didn't have a place to go. I'd eat breakfast (and drink lots of coffee) in Starbucks, and tell my mother I was dropped off by the girl's parents when I'd come home around 9.
It didn't help that outside, it was raining out of a bucket. I pulled up my polyester hood and sloshed in my Keds around the parking lot. I wanted to cry. The rain took care of that, though. And, here it is, the big ironic moment of the story -
As I was rounding my house, I glanced at our parking space. My mother's car was not there. I suppose she stayed over at her boyfriend's house, and I could have been home all along.
------------------
The reason I believe I screwed up my Starbucks interview later in the day is because I became ridiculously sick. I'm not sure if it was the rain, the lack of proper clothing under the rain, or the lack of sleep destroying my immune system. In any case, I welcomed the coughing and headache. I've been feeling so pathetic and disgusted at myself lately, I saw this as a way to physically release all my self-hatred. This sounds a lot more depressing than it actually is - I feel I got what I deserved, and balance in my self-concept (another shameless psych plug) is restored.
It has taken me almost one week to write this post. For some reason, I just didn't want to finish it. And I'm still sick.
Continue reading >>
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
