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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Thursday, April 30
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.
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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 >>
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