rejection feels so real

I guess it's just one of those things that you see at first sight and immediately lust after. Like the romance in chick flicks or the overpriced car or the laid-back life in France. Those things that you see and want and are silly enough to reach after. In childish hopes. Thinking that you would be that exception to everything everyone's ever said to you, that you would prove all the "you can't!"s wrong. I guess it's like watching the romantic scenes fold out in front of your eyes on the screen and saying, "Hm, I'm going to go look for a perfect boy myself and I won't settle for anything less!" then getting your heart broken upon realizing that hey, that type of stuff doesn't exist. Or seeing the red flashy car and deciding that you'll go get it upon realizing that it's just not possible to get a promotion in your 30,000 salary job in which all the employers around you are getting laid off and put on the streets. Or saying "hey, I'm going to go live in France next year," then getting there and realizing that one, you're out of money and two, you're out of luck; the weather's miserable and the people are miserable and it's nothing like the shows or the books. It's like stepping on campus and believing for a second that you could be studying in that library, walking down the streets of New York, playing frisbee on that perfectly trimmed lawn... then suddenly understanding that you do not not not fall under the small 19% of the entire freaking world. That it was just a dream and just a dream and just a dream, and that dreams pass and are soon forgotten. A distant memory. And that it's still okay, because dreams end and life moves on, and the world keeps turning, and there's still people in the world who have no money and have not even a slimmer of hope for college education. And that in the real world, I'll get where I get, wherever I belong, and dreams fade... it's like realizing Santa was never real, then accepting it as a fact, even though it's all you believed in for the first six years of your life.

I'm putting my heart in Chicago now and if I don't make that one I might have to be a little bit more depressed. But for now, I'll just have to finish the rest of my college applications and study for finals and go to Lifetime because my house is in a really downtrodden mood. My dad's sighing and my mom's sighing and they're both telling me to change my essay and look over my resume one more time. And I think I'd rather be running, and hey, that would make two trips to Lifetime in one week, which means I'm progressing in my exercise plans.

college:

thursday.

5 pm, EST.

my inbox.

my future.

dead fish on Bell Road

Bell Road has had a lot of visitors lately:
forest friends, animal spirits,

baby deers and peeved possums,
chipmunks on chases and sedated squirrels;

lying distanced as friends- a sleepover of sorts
with their insides spilled out as if they had
said too many emotional things for the night,

and their hearts had
simply and sentimentally

burst.

Today I saw a dead fish on Bell Road,

as if it had wanted to join the ranks of forest friends

because it thought the ocean was too cold.

(i'm not kidding though, there's a lot of roadkill on bell road and today i did see a fish on the road. it was bizarre). yeah i need to work on my poetry writing but i'll think about it later; we can just call this one a sortof-poem--

things that give me a strange feeling

-when it sounds like it's raining outside, but it's only the wind blowing and the leaves scratching the window panes

-when you search your name (or your friend's name) on google and see the lives of other people with the same name, and how those people have grown into someone successful. and wondering if that person could be you.

-going through the entirety of monday believing it was tuesday (then realizing that it actually is tuesday, what the heck?)

-going 60 mph on a 45 mph road and seeing a policeman on the side of the street

-waking up from a dream and realizing that the radio talkshow host is talking about the same thing that you dreamed about

-listening to a voicemail from eons ago and thinking that it was from today because it's still applicable

-meeting someone who's basically the same as your best friend, or ex

-watching a dog chase its freaking tail

-meeting someone and believing for a genuine second that he has no flaws (this hasn't happened yet but i'd imagine it'd give me a strange feeling)

bittersweet poetry

the soul, is what we likened to.

its flight to the moon and back again

and its pit stops in pink pastures and

stuffy autos on martian philadelphia.

and the heart, is what we avoided.

awkward look-aways in the craters

a thousand confirmations in the savanna grass

and in the car, which passed.

so the trip was short.

back on earth,

i don't remember anything except

that i swear it happened.

that wasn't supposed to make any sense to you; it was just for my own reflection. cryptic messages, let's go. anyways, i started this joint private blog with a friend of mine, where we record every single day and all of our feelings and etc. it's wonderful. but that means i'm ditching this blog for the infinitieth time. heh.

a brief death note

I can write about death all I want, read about it in every book I open. But no matter how much I try to reach into the depths of those five letters, no matter how much I research about it in encyclopedias, no matter how many grievous poems I read or obituaries I look up or discussions I have with my friends, I will never actually feel that pain until it happens, to me. It's like that scene from Good Will Hunting.

Sean: So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my fucking life apart. You're an orphan right? [Will nods]

Sean: You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally... I don't give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can't learn anything from you, I can't read in some fuckin' book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I'm fascinated. I'm in. But you don't want to do that do you sport? You're terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.

So I'm going to stop acting as if I know you, as if I know your intentions. I'm going to stop criticizing in my head, thinking of all the things you should be doing, and start to listen, to sympathize instead. Because what do I know? I've never felt so utterly depressed that I decided to hide a knife in my drawer to make me feel alive. I don't know what it means to be traumatized by a broken family or a death of a close friend. It's all so unreal, all so distant, all so separate from this safe little bubble that I've been so fortunate to stay inside. Sure, I hear stories. But what do I know?

I'll tell you what I do understand though, and that's that any one of you could leave me at any second. That even though death hasn't happened in my life yet, it's going to. That none of us are going to stay here forever, that there's no guarantee that we're all going to make it to college and beyond. So here's to some loving, that absolutely everyone deserves. It's not worth it to be mean.

our calling to the world

If your neighbor's house was burning, you'd go and try to help, wouldn't you?

Or if you saw a kid stuck under a car, you'd try to get him out from under, wouldn't you?

My sentiments exactly.

It's like a river of hot lava.*

It's like a huge river of hot lava, flowing in massive currents, with metallic crocodiles viciously swimming around. You and the rest of the world just killed Jesus, so you're running and running, until you find this river of lava. And all these people are jumping, trying to jump across this 30 feet wide river, to escape their guilt, to get away from what they just did. You see people all around, jumping five feet and dying, jumping six feet and dying, jumping ten feet and dying. You see Michael Phelps, and he jumps 18 feet, but he still dies. No matter how far people try to jump, they still die. And so you decide to jump to your fate too. And it's like God suddenly built a bridge under your feet, right before you could die. You obviously don't deserve it. You deserve to die; you just killed God's son for goodness sake.

And yet, God's grace still saved you. This is beyond any love you've ever seen, past all the anger and revenge plaguing the world. He kept you from falling into the lava, so that you could walk on the bridge to the other side and join Him. You don't deserve it. Nobody deserves it. So, you complain about how God isn't fair? How it's unjust for Him to save only Christians and not Muslims or all the other good people of the world? Well, if God were to be fair, then we'd all go to hell, every single one of us, for the sins that we've committed. But He is merciful...

So God's built this bridge for you. But there's still something you're not good at- maybe you have a speech impediment, maybe you think you're ugly, maybe you're shy, maybe you're blind. So you ask God, please, please get rid of this feature. Make me better. But why? That's like trying to jump on this bridge that God's already made for you; why are you still trying to jump when you can just walk across? Why do you need to be pretty, when you're already on the bridge, when God's already saved your life? You can stop jumping now. Because from here-on out, it's all God. All your talent, it's made possible by God.

Oh, praise God! How wonderful it is, His mercy!

*Analogy heard from Joyce Zou :)

my mother and I

Usually at dinner, I gorge myself with the Chinese food and finish it in about ten minutes, then rush back into my cave of a room to sit down and do productive things (or something along those lines). But today, I sat at the dinner table for a good hour, just talking to my mom. And it was nice, because I didn't cry once, which is actually a pretty big step in my life, since I tend to cry a lot around my mom (she just makes me very emotional, what can I say).

I talked about my future and how my life would basically end after I got a child, since I'd be too busy taking care of the darn thing to travel anywhere or do something amazing like change the world. I'd have to find some permanent job at age 30 and raise a family, even with so much life left. Then I realized that I probably offended her, because she was one of those women who got married at 20 and had a child at 21 or 22. But she looked at me and smiled, and said that it was the most honorable thing that she's ever done, and we had that cheesy mother-daughter moment for a few split seconds. Moms can get really cheesy (insert senior ads), but it's not like they show the tearful and overdramatic mother-daughter relationships in movies for no reason.

Then she asked me if she thought I'd marry a white guy or an Asian guy, and we had fun with that. I doubt you care, but I have never even contemplated a white husband until recently. It is not my fault! The Asian ideal guy has been imprinted in me ever since I came to this Asian-infested city. It's actually slightly sad; whenever I go to camp, the first guys I see are Asian. But I think that this infatuation for Asian guys has finally expired, because I am so sick of them. The thought of a white husband no longer makes me raise my eyebrow with confusion (probably because I don't have a bad image of one yet). Aye. Who cares though. I will never be able to escape Asians. It's in me. Forever.

We talked about her CEOs and their speeches, and then we talked about a guy who skipped his entire high school years, then we talked about people changing in college, then we talked about college essays, then we talked about all my friends... and it felt so wonderful. It felt so nostalgic. I'm going to miss my mother so much; she's basically the reason that I was able to get through physics, the reason I was able to get through my breakup, the reason I sing songs to myself and appreciate the small things in life and manage to break out in a smile every day. I've never met someone so level-headed and loving. So here's to you, mom. Only you could get that excited about buying pants for my brother or random salmon dip from Whole Foods.

I'm a rockstar no matter what online games tell me

Right, so it's been a good month (and a half?) since I've been here. I blame it on the laptop spontaneously deciding to be a teenage female drama queen, deciding to try drugs while on her period, then crashing. Goodbye various important documents and a few hundred of my favorite songs; farewell!

I don't remember what I'm supposed to use this thing for anymore. I don't know who I'm talking to either. I do feel comfortable in this little room I've isolated myself in. It's too loud outside. Too many people.

I'd rather sit and play Hit Machine on OMGPOP. Yes. Oh freaking yes. It's basically FFR, which is DDR for the fingers. I don't know why I think that I'm playing the piano when I'm hitting these keys on the keyboard, and I don't know why I act like I'm playing a ridiculously amazing drum solo or strumming along on my banjo, when I only get 50% accuracies (which means I only manage to correctly "tap" half of the notes). But man, the fantasies sure do take me far. I close my eyes (maybe that's why I'm only tapping half of the notes) and tap tap away on my keyboard, hey look I'm a jazz pianist, oh wait now I'm a rockstar and everybody loves me, wow I did not know I could play guitar and bass at the same time, look at me go! Oh, wow, I actually hit that note, there's so much color on my screen oh my gosh I'm blinded by my awesomeness!

And then I realize that I'm still in front of my computer, wasting time playing some game on OMGPOP...

But yes. That is how I've been wasting my time for the past month while I've been gone. I wish I could say that I won some kind of online award (actually, that'd probably be sad), but I don't think I've even improved much (still talking about Hit Machine). Well, I did. I improved from a 50% accuracy to a 75% accuracy. But that's still failing. So I guess I should go find something better to do.

Okay, so remember how we all used to post on our xangas these short little blurbs of every single thing that's happening in our lives (or was that just me)? Yeah, that's coming:

• Homecoming is quickly approaching, and I suppose it's still pretty exciting despite the fact that the entire nation of China (and Taiwan) decided to tag along.
• My common app essay is about how much of a wuss I am (aka i-like-to-cry-even-during-inappropriate-times)
• I found a notebook that me and three other friends used to pass around and write in in 8th grade. Its name was "Le Fanton," derived from Fanta. It was really silly, and it's embarrassing to read my entries in it, but I suppose I will feel the same way years from now while reading back on this stupid blog post.
• The first issue of the school magazine looks amazing. It is my baby that I managed to get without being pregnant or having sex with .. paper? Okay, I guess I didn't have to elaborate on that one.
• I am going to an interactive zombie apocalypse on the Sunday after homecoming. They give us guns, and we get to shoot the live zombies that come at us. I don't actually know how that works; will something actually shoot out of our guns, so that when they feel it, they'll pretend to drop dead? I hope it's a dart gun. I don't want to go. I'm still scared, even after that terrible Netherworld fiasco last year. But I have to go since I volunteered to write the article... what the heck?!
• The whole interactive thing seems to be the hot thing these days. Google docs is also interactive and it is the best thing ever invented. I wonder if they'll make movies interactive too. I really would like to go into Inception, kick out the Juno girl, and sit in Joseph Gordon-Levitt's lap. Oh, and the whole getting stuck in a dream thing would be cool too, I guess.
• School's hard but I don't care
• This is getting a bit long.

Right, so I'm so glad that you are just as obsessed about me as I am about myself. Okay, bye. What? Do I usually say bye at the end of posts? Wow, I feel like I'm in 8th grade again, writing on a xanga. It's a wonderful feeling.

So... school starts tomorrow.

I don't think it'll hit me that I'm a senior until it's all over.

But I guess that's okay.

Good night, everyone.

:o)

Oh, and happy birthday Alice, Rebecca, me, Donna, and Anna.

August birthdays for the win. I love it when we all grow up together.

college = fear

College is getting to me.

And it's not even that I don't know where to apply, or that I won't have enough financial aid, or even that I don't think that I'll get in anywhere; it's that I'm afraid that I'm going to get into a wonderful college and pay lots of money and come out still not knowing what I'm doing with my life. And then I'll end up in some mediocre-paying job that I'll hate. Either that, or I just won't make money, because none of my interests are practical enough (nor am I spectacular enough) to make anything out of it. I'm afraid that my college education will be a waste because I won't know how to use it. I'm afraid that I'm not as smart or talented as everyone somehow thinks I am. I'm afraid that I'll be too afraid to disappoint my parents (or society) to not do something traditional. Some cubicle job, or some job with prestige. I'm afraid that this fear is going to stop me from doing something great, if I can even achieve something great.

I am so scared, and I feel like I'm back at square one all over again. Where'd all my confidence go?

my lengthy adventure on friday the 13th

Warning: this is super lengthy with a lot of my random opinions.

You know where I woke up? In the little tunnel of the neighborhood playground, the one where you have to crawl through to get to the other side. Well. Yesterday night, at around three am. I decided to go outside and see if I could catch any meteors. Unfortunately, the street lamps were blinding, and my backyard was creeping with loud critters and frightening noises, so I decided to give it ten minutes before I went back inside. The door happened to be locked. I don't know how that happened, but all I knew was that I could not get back in my house at 3:10 am. So I went to the playground, laid on the bench for an hour, got restless, and moved to the tunnel of the playground. And I slept there until 6:30, when I woke up extremely cold and gross. My excuse is that I wanted to live the life of a hobo for a night.

Nature is very loud. It hisses at you, and it coughs up every unnatural noise that could very well make you piss in your pants. I lay there frozen in that tunnel, pulling my shirt over my legs and bunched in a ball, listening to that strange and eerie sound of some unknown animal. It might have been a sick deer. And I listened to the croaking crickets (crickets croak?!) and the buzzing frogs, and that's when I knew I was getting tired. Then the owls started whooping, and the birds started hooting, and so I burrowed my head into the hard plastic and tried to make it go away. What an exhausting night.

Then I got out of the tunnel at 7 am because a sick man started coughing near the playground, and I wanted to avoid all human contact as possible, so I jumped out of there and walked away as calmly as possible. And I went to my backyard and sat there until my parents left the house at 8:30.

You know, benches are not comfortable at all. I always thought they looked alright, especially when I saw the homeless all bundled up and cozy. What a joke. It's mid-August, and I still felt so cold out there. And no, I did not get to see any meteors, because I was trying to fall asleep. It's such a strange sensation, to think about all the normal things you did during the day [eat at waffle house, make some money, watch a movie, drink beverages from mcdonalds], and then find yourself sleeping on a bench at three in the morning. But it was okay for me because I knew I could just go back to my bed in the morning. Homeless people have to live every day knowing that there is nowhere to go. It's not like they have a go-to bench, or a more homey plank of wood. It's not like it's a temporary one-night thing.

And I hate it when people think it's their fault. Admittedly, some are to blame, but as I was thinking about my views last night in the cold, I finally realized who I am and what political categories I fall into. I'm morally conservative but fiscally liberal. There. I decided that that's that. I am not going to be swayed anymore. I don't believe in legalized abortion or legalized gay marriage (sue me, but that's what my God commands), but I'm for taxing the wealthy more than the poor. Ah, screw it all though. I hate politics. Sure, I support the government, but I don't know why everyone needs to be so torn up- even Christians. Let me copy and paste something I wrote:

what if we just didn't care about politics? i'm not saying to ignore it, of course, but why do you think it's important to focus on politics when there's still so much to fix about ourselves? we protest gay marriages while divorcing at the same rate that non-christians divorce at, we oppose the government and its secrecy while reveling in our own slander and greed, we ridicule abortion while holding hate in our hearts; why are we focusing so much on the laws of the land and the actions of others when we are in desperate need of fixing ourselves? I feel like Jesus talked more about our hypocrisies than he did against the government; he never talked of things like liberalism and conservatism, and he never straight out bashed Caesar. our job is to be the body of CHRIST, his people- not a nation. admittedly, i do believe that we should have federal laws against abortion, but i don't believe in all this energy that's being used to so adamantly protest this and that law, because i really don't think that's our purpose, especially when there's bigger problems (even down the street) than politics, starting with ourselves. abortion and homosexuality are clearly sins, but that doesn't mean that the government needs to be involved with it all. lying is a sin, as is adultery, and worshiping any other god, but the government does not make laws about those. i just feel like all this talk about politics is unnecessary, because honestly, we've got to look at ourselves.

So now that I've made my spiel about politics, let's move on, haha. I don't even know who's reading this. I feel like blogs died and revived in tumblr form. Which is really addicting, by the way. I can't get enough of it. Anyways though. As I was sitting in my own backyard waiting to go inside, I couldn't help but to think, gee, knowledge comes with so much responsibility. When you grow up and gain experience, everyone just expects you to take responsibility after learning of the things of this world, of the good things and bad things. If I were a kid and had found myself locked outside, my mom would've understood, because hey, I was just a kid. But at sixteen years old? My mother would've thrown a fit. You know better than that.

That's the same with religion though. I ran across this quote the other day:

"How much do you have to hate someone to not share your faith?"

And it's true. Because if you really realize the seriousness of heaven and hell, and that your best friend could very well be eternally damned, then why wouldn't you share your faith? Screw the whole "i-don't-want-to-offend-him" mindset; who cares? This life is temporary. If you really believed that the person sitting next to you in school or on the bus could go to hell, why wouldn't you try to save them? I wish we all didn't feel it so necessary to not be offensive. The beauty of it is that the quote was said by an atheist and outspoken opponent against organized religion:

"how much do you have to hate somebody to not proselytize? how much do you have to hate somebody to believe that everlasting life is possible and not tell them that?"

I'm not going to pretend anymore. I know I can't control anyone, but as a Christian, the least I could do is share my faith, not stand aside and pretend to be okay with other choices. It's not that I'm intolerant, or that I hate you, or anything like that. It's a sincere belief in my religion and in my God, and a desire to bring you along with the ride.

Because I do need to stop acting like everything's okay. Christians shouldn't be of the world. We should be aliens.

And there it is.

Dear Seniors of 2010:

My feet are sore, and my eyes are heavy, and my mom got angry because I drove past curfew, and I spent 3/4 of my gas tank just driving to all the places to prepare (ie Target, Party City x3, Dollar Tree x4, Publix x4, CVS x3, Ritchie's house x2, Rebecca's house x3, I don't know why we couldn't manage to get everything at once), but honestly, I'm pretty positive that it was worth it. I wouldn't have had it any other way; you all deserve it. You all deserve it a million times.

The memories I've had!

I remember my first year volunteering at VBS. I had signed up for the worship team because I wanted to be with you guys. Tammy, Melissa, Helena, Tinny - you guys were what I viewed as cool. Haha- I'd laugh, but the problem is that I still do think the same thing. I would sit on my computer and scroll through the pictures on facebook and think, pwehehe I am hanging out with older people, I am so cool. But it's just that I had never been in the company of people who were so much fun to be with. I had never laughed so much, or felt so accepted by people who I hardly knew. Honestly, I was going to be a dirty little freshman, and you guys were going to be sophomores who already knew the ropes in high school, and freshmen and sophomores do not usually associate. So I was thankful. And Tammy, I did admire you from afar. All my friends did.

And then I heard about Christine, who was not on the worship team but was instead a teacher, and I realized too that it's okay to want to be a teacher, and that it's not a terrible thing to not be on the worship team. That's what I realized. And it's a good thing too, because I do love to teach. I'd like to be a teacher one day.

And then came freshmen year, and Melissa, you waved like a silly little girl in the hallways and that one morning at FCA, and you invited me to sit with you at lunch and I never felt better at my first day of high school. I still thought you had to raise your hand to get out of your seat like in middle school, man. It was good you had my back.

And Monique, you and I, we were crazy, and we laced fingers and skipped down the halls together, singing backstreet boys at the top of our lungs. And Nashville, oh Nashville, it seems like so long ago. I can hardly believe it happened- all that crap that you cried through and that crazy windy night and the way we prayed and the people we met and talked to and the delicious food we ate... and fast forward to winter retreat, when we laid out on the dock in the freezing night, staring at the stars, and you pointed out the constellations and told me that no, that was not a shooting star, but a satellite. And we cracked jokes, hysterical jokes, that everyone laughed at I swear. And it was good times. I can still feel the biting wind on my neck and laughing, so hard.

And then Christine and I got drunk on that biting wind, or something in the air. It's the best thing to get drunk on, I'll say.

And I went to Azalea Apartments, and all of us, we slept together, and I told bedtime stories to Monique, and I fed Christine, and I ran with Melissa and Tinny to Chinatown to deliver a watermelon to someone, and we were out of breath... and we played with the children and we performed random skits and we washed the dishes and played guitar at night and ate Mochi and watched Up and had amazing meals together... and it was good times. It was wonderful times.

And then this past year, with everything, oh wow - the haunted house (I am amazed still that I survived), the early morning WaHo visits, the crazy large homecoming, the core groups, and youth groups, the faux prom, the laser tagging, the the the-

It's those things that stick out to me when I look back. Sure there's all the stress from school and the drama with friends, and all the crap that we complain about, but no, these are the times that I can look back on and say with confidence, I was happy. I was happy and there were no hard feelings, no ulterior motives. It was pure, it was real. Guys, I hope you can at least get an inkling of what kind of impact you've had on me, because it's amazing, the way it happened.

And now, it's my turn to step up. And our day will come too. And things will come, and things will go. Today, when I was cleaning things up, I was thinking, wow, this is what I had wanted to do five years ago, and here I am. Here I am. You know, I had always wanted to be in the "in" crowd, to be accepted; that's just how I am. I've always wanted to avoid problems and make sure everyone's happy. But you guys have taught me, kindof ironically, that it's not about being "in," but about reaching out to the people on the outside. There is no such thing as "in." It's all in our heads. It doesn't even matter.

But this matters, and we matter, and God matters. And I am so thankful, and so happy, and so content. Thanks for being the sisters I needed. Go forth and prosper - and you know what I mean by "prosper."

Btw: Thank you so much to Jason, Christina, Rebecca, Kasandra, Ritchie, and Jaime (who was there in spirit); we are the class of 2011, and we're going to be great. There is so much love in this post right now.

A CASE STUDY ON THE CAPITAL LETTER

SO YESTERDAY NIGHT, I DECIDED TO TALK TO EVERYONE USING ONLY CAPITAL LETTERS, IN AN ATTEMPT TO RID OF THE SHOUTING VOICE ASSOCIATED WITH IT. I OBSERVED A FEW THINGS AMIDST ALL THIS, AND IT WAS ACTUALLY QUITE INTERESTING. FIRSTLY, THE CAPITAL LETTER WAS NOT ORIGINALLY MADE TO MAKE PEOPLE SOUND MORE EXCITED OR MORE ANGRY. ACTUALLY, IT WAS WHAT WAS THEY STARTED WITH, AND THEN THEY INVENTED THE LOWERCASE LETTER SO THAT THEY COULD WRITE FASTER, AND IT'S INTERESTING TO SEE HOW THE CAPITAL LETTER HAS EVOLVED. THESE ARE THE THINGS I OBSERVED OUT OF THE FEW PEOPLE I TALKED TO:

1. PEOPLE AUTOMATICALLY BECOME HAPPIER WHEN HAVING A CONVERSATION IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. QUOTE ONE GUY: "I FEEL LIKE A BIGGER, HAPPIER VERSION OF MYSELF." CAPITAL LETTERS SEEM TO HAVE A EUPHORIC, ALMOST DRUG-LIKE EFFECT ON A PERSON. WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF WE COULD REPLACE DRUGS WITH CAPITAL LETTERS?
2. ONE FEELS WORN OUT AND TIRED AFTER AN ENTIRE CONVERSATION OF CAPITAL LETTERS, SIMILAR TO THE "COMING DOWN" EFFECT OF DRUGS OR THE "CRASH" OF A CAFFEINATED DRINK.
3. WHEN I STARTED TALKING TO PEOPLE IN CAPITAL LETTERS, MOST OF THEM IMMEDIATELY RESPONDED IN CAPITAL LETTERS AS WELL, AS IF THEY FELT THREATENED AND HAD TO LIVE UP TO THE LARGENESS OF THE CONVERSATION.
4. THE CONVERSATIONS FELT MORE IMPORTANT AND MORE INTENSE, AND THEY LASTED LONGER THAN THEY USUALLY WOULD. EVERYBODY RESPONDED FASTER TOO.
5. EVERYTHING I SAY BECOMES MORE BLOWN UP. IF I SAY "HAHA," THE JOKE SEEMS INFINITELY FUNNIER. IF I SAY "NO," I SOUND LIKE AN EXTREMELY TEMPERAMENTAL AND ANGRY PMS-Y GIRL. THIS IS HOW IT IS, EVEN IN A CONVERSATION OF ALL CAPS.
6. THE LOWERCASE BECOMES MORE POWERFUL IN A CONVERSATION OF ALL CAPS. IT HAS THE EFFECT OF, QUOTE ONE PERSON, "THE ROOM GETTING REALLY QUIET AND SOMEONE WHISPERING REALLY SERIOUSLY." THIS IS A REVOLUTIONARY WAY TO MAKE OTHERS TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY ONLINE.
7. THE UPPERCASE LETTER MAKES PEOPLE THINK OF YOU AS A JOKE, AND NOBODY WILL TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY.

SO I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU: DID you TAKE THIS POST SERIOUSLY?

PS: I HAVE YET TO GET RID OF THE SHOUTING VOICE. IT IS STILL THERE.

>> tumblr is here

>> yellowchalk.tumblr.com

I decided that I'm going to share stuff on it. Like all the videos that I obsess about, and all the music, and random pictures. That's what tumblr's supposed to be about anyways. Minimal thinking and expression through music and visuals. I don't know what's up with the minimalistic trend lately, but I do kindof like it. It's better when things are simple and white.

Anyways, check it out if you're looking for random things to surf through on the net.

Sixth Grade

[ if you don't remember, this is from a series of vignettes, found here ]

I sat at the lunch table uncomfortably, divided between the “popular” group of Asians and my one best friend since third grade- the girl who had never really fit in anywhere except at my house. She was clad in an orange long-sleeves shirt with a picture of a cartoon girl in pigtails and overalls sewn on the front; she wore matching orange pants and oversized velcro shoes. She rested her head on her hand and drawled on about how she desired to be a popular white girl, and I nodded in fake sympathy, secretly desiring to scoot over a chair and join in on the conversation of the group nearby.

“I wish I could buy some clothes from Abercrombie, but my mom wouldn’t let me go in that store,” she said wistfully.

“Mmhmm.”

“Or try Starbucks coffee; that’s what those popular girls always do.”

“Yeah…”

“I’m going to buy some gum tomorrow too, and I’ll start acting mean like them.”

“Sure.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“It’s worth a try.”

I knew it wouldn’t work; I just wanted her off my back. But I was too nice to say anything about it. I eagerly leaned my head toward the other group of girls, listening in on their conversations as my best friend remained lost in her thoughts, unsatisfied with the social circle she was currently part of. Not that I was any different.

RIP Mr. Sung

I guess maybe it's my fault that I've been purposely ignoring all the bad things in this world and living in my own happy little bubble. I told myself, no, you are not naive because you are happy. You see the world for all its evil, and you simply embrace the good things. That's what makes you different. That's what makes you mature. But I looked up Mr. Sung's murder and I cried like a baby, because first of all it was a horrible death for someone who seemed so great (and guiltless!), and second of all I don't know why I've always been so stranger to it all. I don't know why I always have to give excuses to people. I don't know why I always have to give people the benefit of doubt, when it's practically obvious where they stand. I don't know why I always side with the person getting blamed. Maybe it's a good thing. But I don't doubt that if I were to go to downtown Atlanta and start talking with a homeless guy, and he started telling me about all the guys he killed, I would probably sit and nod like a dog, and understand and sympathize, in a weird way. As long as he felt bad about it. That's my justification for everything. Not like it get rids of all the deaths and all the bad things. In fact, it probably makes it worse.

But what I really don't get is why someone would stab such a good guy, and repeatedly too, for no apparent reason. If he wanted to rob the store, he could've done it without killing someone he had nothing against. I guess there's always going to be bad people in this world; that's the best I've got. But is it our faults too? Is it all us pompous rich kids, who turn down our windows to a probably nice homeless guy, who stare condescendingly at the hobos on the bench, who look at a rugged guy in a grocery store and conspicuously turn the other way and walk into the next aisle? Is it our faults, that we press it into their heads from day one that they're bad people. Oh, you're black, and you live in a poor area, therefore you are bad. Is it our faults?

Here I am again, trying to justify the bad people. But you've got to wonder, were they always like that? And are we really that much different, that much better?

Of course, I've got better things to worry about than deaths and murders and silly things like that. Of course, don't we all.

the people of jiachpi

Well, here I am, back in the real world. I think that's a really funny phrase. When I was at GHP, we kept on referring to home as the "real world." But when I'm back home, I refer to the "real world" as the adult life, the world outside of school, the world of cubicles and sick days. But when I reach that world, I'm sure I'll refer to the real world as poverty, Africa, and war. And when I'm there, I'm bound to refer to the "real world" as back in America, because that's where I'll have spent the majority of my life. So from what I can gather, this real world is unattainable and we're always stuck in a state of fantasy. Right? Right. Anyways.

So GHP. I know that whenever you ask someone how GHP was, you always get the same one-worded answer- "awesome!" or "amazing!" and that ends up being that. Nobody from the outside world really knows what goes on inside of there. It's so mysterious. It's like the liminal phase, a transition of sorts, an unspoken of place. It's not that we traveled to a different world and were forbidden to talk about it or anything like that, it's just that so much happened during those six weeks that it all just mushes together and becomes one big blob of GHP. I mean, come on, they're just days. And each day was fun. And you have all these fun activities, and all these fun people, and all these fun classes, and every day is fun and interesting and fun. And together, that makes something life-changing, because we don't get enough fun in the real world (or we're scared to). At least that's how I look at it.

I learned a lot. I learned things from my Commie classes, things about dead people, undead people, TV shows, literature from different time periods, court cases, the strange conception of reality, myths, Joseph Campbell, the five sole companies that control America's media, advertisements (oh how I don't want to be in the marketing industry anymore), cultures of the world, perfection, eternity, women...

I learned to make my bed every morning and sleep without falling off the bed. I learned how to make it back to my dorm from West Lawn in two minutes. I learned that if you close your eyes, you won't notice all the gnats flying around you outside. I learned that you should just give your empty plates to music majors in the morning so that they can throw them away, since they have fifteen more minutes than any of the other majors. I learned that everyone in your class stares at you funny if you're on time. I learned that some people really have too much power, whether it be in their voices or instruments. I learned who had the ramen and who to raid at night after hall check. I learned that watching movies is not a waste of time, especially when they're Disney movies. I learned that rocks are animate. I learned that it's a lot more fun to go on the computer when there's other people around you (even if nobody is talking to each other). I learned how to slyly hack into somebody's facebook and make the joke just the right amount of funny. I learned that everything is a phallic symbol, practically. I learned about my faith. I learned that it's really hard to have opinions sometimes, because nobody's ever going to be happy. I learned how to stand still and pose (for no apparent reason) for random people walking to Palms. I learned what to do with my broken shades: wear them that way. I learned that I was immune to tickling. I learned how to act like a Power Ranger. I learned how to salsa with incompetent people. I learned how to meet strangers. I learned how to have a conversation with only laughter, no words. I learned how to dance funny. I learned how to love.

And if you were to see me again (which you will), you probably wouldn't see much of a change in me. If I were to look in the mirror, I wouldn't see much of a change either. But I feel somehow different. I feel better. Not new, but better, in all aspects. So cheers to growing up a little.

Bruno Mars- Count on Me

Watch Amelie.

It's beautiful.

(Yes, it's in french; just use subtitles).

I woke up this morning feeling a little bit homesick. GHP is fantastic, but home's pretty fantastic too. I opened my mailbox today and found letters inside and I was smiling all over the place (although I do not know how you could possibly smile in any place other than your face). I've also been going to sleep for the past few nights feeling full of angst, because we're supposed to be having a fire drill at midnight sometime soon and it still hasn't happened. I swore it was going to be Saturday night, so I was tossing and turning waiting for that darned bell to ring, but it never did. The routine happened again last night. So that gosh darn fire drill better happen tonight or I'm going to be very frustrated at this whole ordeal. Haha.

This week at CommArts is going to be a lot of fun. Too much fun. I'm taking "The Pursuit of Perfection" and "Reckoning with Mortality." THE TEACHERS ARE THE BEST. Did you know that males actually care a whole lot, if not more, about their image? I knew this, but we read some pretty interesting articles today. I feel particularly sorry for short guys, because if they're desperate enough, they can go pay seventy thousand to add a few inches to themselves, excruciating pain included. The whole procedure takes like, nine months, and it hurts so much that they can't even go to work. It involves twisting needles that are stuck into the bones. Grody. It's sad though, right? I'm not going to lie, I find a guy a whole lot more attractive if he's reasonably tall. The short ones are just "cute."

Wow, I always have to leave before I fully finish a post.

This is what we've been doing in computers minor:

thereifixedit.com

CLICK IT!

okay bye!

Week ONE!

Hello from Valdosta!
Firstly, I want to say to Jenny Su that I'm still really happy that you made a tumblr, and it caught me off guard when I was looking through my blog feed today and saw it there. The problem is that I can't comment on it, but just know that I'm reading your shallow quotes and laughing/awing at your pictures.


Anyways, it's like paradise here. Except with more work, less relaxation, less sleep, and more sweat. Much more sweat. So, it's not really like paradise, but the palm trees do add to the effect.
So this past week, I took two classes in my Commarts major-
I am Woman, and this Anglo-Saxon Literature class.

The first one was this class that explored women's role in society, and even though the teacher tried to play it off as just that and not a feminist class, it was basically a feminist class. We even rewrote chapters of the Feminine Mystique and the Declaration at Seneca Falls, so yes, it was very pro-female and pro-equality. Surprisingly though, I actually came out of the class less of a feminist, because truthfully, I do like the idea of the stronger male head who comes out of nowhere as the shining knight of armor. The other day, a girl freaked out over the idea of guys holding doors open for females (she found it offensive), but I was silently thinking, gee, I'd love it if I was going on a date and the guy actually thought to hold open a car door for me. All we did was ask questions in that class; we barely came to any conclusion except that we'd just like our own choices. Like, why should we abstain until marriage (why not the try-it-before-you-buy-it methodology?), and why's it not okay anymore for housewiving to be a job, and why has it become practically required for marriages to be monogamous, and why's it not okay for guys to play with barbie dolls and wear dresses? I don't agree with any of it, but you've got to wonder, where'd these notions of "feminine" and "masculine" even come from?

The second class was a whole lot more interesting... which you probably wouldn't expect. But the teacher, Jobie, worked wonders in my head when he taught. There's so much about the Bible that I need to learn. But it's scary though, to think of all the possibilities of mess-ups in translations. I mean, there was like five different languages that the ancient text had to go through, AND it was first written a freakishly long time ago. Oh, and if you're wondering, the Bible related to the Anglo-saxon literature because the Anglos converted to Christianity once upon a time. There's so much interesting stuff about the Anglos, and I wish I could type it all here, but I definitely can't. I've decided though that I will read through all the LOTR books AND watch all the LOTR movies, because that suddenly seems like a very good life goal to have. And here's something interesting. The Catholics made up the idea of "Limbo" (where dead babies go) because the Anglos were like, "dude, what happens to babies when they die unbaptized?" So what do you say, is it ethical to add things to a religion with the purpose of converting someone?

Wow, yeah. Great week. Food sucks. Watched Donnie Darko and Casablanca. Donnie Darko was amazing and eerie (eerie because of the creepy bunny); Casablanca was straightup classy. The dance last night was the best thing I've ever participated in because everyone's really nerdy and awkward. And now we're all getting kicked out of the library because it actually doesn't open until thirty minutes... so. bye!

GHP

I can't wrap my head around anything these days. It all just seems so unreal.

In six hours, I am leaving for GHP.

In six weeks, I will be back from GHP, and apparently, my life will have changed. I can't quite grasp that concept, to walk into something knowing that my life is going to be changed, or at least something close to that. I'm slightly scared that it won't turn out as great as everyone's made it out to be, but I've got my water filter and laundry detergent packed so that's one step forward to having a good experience.

Well. I guess I shouldn't make too big of a deal out of it. I'm just going to say that I'm going to miss both my friends and (non-existent) foes alike, so please write me if you get the chance.

I will text the important people the address the second I get there. Here I gooooo!

Wait, hold on, pause for a second, let me get this straight.

I'm a senior now?

Pinch me. This can't be real.

Depressed people are the worst.

I have a fear of depressed people.

They're scary, just look at how they walk. Look at how the ends of their mouths tug down, look at how empty their laugh sounds, how hollow their eyes look. Is it contagious? Probably, like the plague. I'm the kind of person who likes to have absolute control, but they, they catch me off guard. I find myself stumbling over my words trying to find something consoling to say. I rummage through my head for a personal experience. No? Words of encouragement? "I'm sorry..." as if that helped. A timid pat on the shoulder- well, that was awkward.

And then it comes, and I start despising you, and I start yelling at you to stop hunting for pity, and then I hate you and I hate you and I hate you until I start to slowly transform into another one of you. Oh, how awful. You monster, you, for not swallowing up the rainbows and ponies that were supposed to have been fed to you daily as a child; you abnormal alien, you, for not blissfully living in ignorance, away from the world, evil. Why'd I have to be brought into this?

But why must you focus so stubbornly on your pitiful misfortunes when there's a blue sky above you, a plate of food in front of you, a house on your left and a house on your right, and an easy escape behind you? Why is it so necessary for you to spend that much more energy on a frown?

How I do fear those depressed people. It must be a terrible thing to say, and I'd like to have a disclaimer right now and say that I don't mind if you're depressed every now and then; life happens. I'm just scared, that's all. Scared that it's contagious. I am a very easily impacted person, after all.

But maybe, instead of complaining, I should try helping. Yes, that would be quite a start.

Envy

Oh, I know what it is. I get jealous. Of people who seem to know where they're going, already. Or of people who knew and did something about it.

Both of whom are not me.

Lost (or unfound) Potential

If, in the entire English language, there was only one descriptive word that could be picked out, shined, and be called my own, it’d probably be this: spoiled. I grew up with, essentially, one thousand futures laid out in front of me, with everything in reach and everything in touch. Here this path led to the medical realm, with access to internships and resource books at every bathroom break, there that path led to law, that one to engineering, that one to design, to business, to economics. The possibilities were endless and quite dizzying, as I could turn my head only a half a degree and find another road. That makes 720 intersecting roads in one tiny circle and yet, the number seems miniscule compared to the constant confusion prancing around in my daily life.

In second grade, my dance teacher told me that I had potential. She fawned over how gracefully I clicked my toes together: look at that little Asian girl, a prodigy, she is! And I was spoiled with unnatural hues of eye coloring and lip coloring and every bit of coloring, so long as it wasn’t skin coloring, and I was rushed, rushed, rushed to front and center, but after a year or so I was back in the back with all the other colored dolls, obediently performing my arabesques; can a prodigy child un-prodigy herself?

In fourth grade, my piano teacher claimed to have taken one look at me and known, known what, I have yet to find out. She said it was my eyes. I followed her instructions and hit the note with my hand, loosening my wrist in the same pattern she did, loosening my shoulders, moving down with my hand and swaying as rhythmically as I could. And she spoiled me with extra lessons and extra candy and begged to take pictures with me after my recitals, and she framed those pictures and placed them on the mantle next to the pictures of her daughter and her husband. But I forgot to practice one week, and the next week, and the week after that my photo was replaced with another fancy girl’s and my lessons had deteriorated to shrink appointments.

In sixth grade, my tennis teacher saw me hit a ball and praised me for hitting it within the painted white lines, even though I had only done what he had told me to do. He coached me hard and he coached me often; he marveled at how quickly I mastered the skills. “She’s got potential,” he would tell my parents, “she’ll get far.” The lessons increased as my skill level stayed steady, and my skill level fell as my attendance to the court dropped to near zero. That’s when I learned how to quit.

In eighth grade, my art teacher told me that if I just drew a bit more, I could succeed in the field of art. He sat me down next to him and instructed me little by little, demanding that I understand that painting the shadow did not simply mean to add black, nor did painting the light simply mean to add white. He mixed the blues and the browns, the reds and the purples; he blended them and with a whip of his wrist a beautiful shade of black found itself underneath the apple on the canvas. But the sketchbooks and pencils that he had spoiled me with lay unused and forgotten, week after week, until he, too, gave up on my potential.

And now, I am idle.

Perhaps if I hadn’t been spoiled, I would’ve worked harder, at least, I’d like to believe that. Perhaps if my teachers had challenged me, hurt me, or caused me to cry, I would have sat down and practiced my potential only a little bit more. Perhaps if everything wasn’t so forced.

I only want someone to believe in me, forever.

What do college search and Justin Bieber have in common?

"You have every university chasing you like prepubescent girls going after Justin Bieber (it's okay, we don't get the appeal either)."

This is what I found in my inbox today. Absolutely brilliant college admissions marketing.

Of course it won't actually convince me to spend the money for an app for American University. But honestly, that's great.

Haha. I just looked at my little blurb up there that says "I'm sixteen and growing," except I went to the doctor today, and he said that I'm not growing anymore. I know I didn't mean it literally, but I still find it slightly amusing. I'll be short forever, while my brother's shooting up faster than bamboo shoots. I don't mind being short though. Not sure why. Maybe I'll think of reasons later.

I also realized that I'm a hard-hitting feminist. Never suspected that one before.

I'm actually not being sarcastic.

Hello I'm a workaholic.

My legs are all discolored from the bruises and mosquito bites, but I am proud and faintly surprised to say that I have survived the first week of summer without feeling the need to pull out my hair from boredom. I think those days belonged to sixth or seventh grade or something of those times, but it feels good to love summer, sweat and all. Even my Sunday School teacher noticed a difference: Wow, Jessie, you're so much... happier... now that exams are done. Having a car really helps; I can actually go places- what a novel idea. But of course, after being out of the house so much, I'm dedicating the next week to studying for sat2s. Although this was in great part due to my mom's nagging, I still think there's something wrong with me.

I have this obsession with doing work. Doing something. Being productive. I was looking through my past Facebook status updates, and very many of them went something like "wow, great weekend, now time to do work." As if I felt guilty for having fun. Even during this week, which was incredible, I still felt as though I could've done something more. As though I should've planned more productive things over the summer, other than GHP. There's always this unnecessary sense of urgency for impossible things, like changing the world. I think that I have trouble focusing on the small things (like studying for sat2s) and I start drifting off into a land of what-ifs, like what if I had found my love for poetry earlier, or what if I had done more with Club Smile, or what if I could found a charity, or what if I could've visited Whirlwind more during the year.

And now I'm beginning to realize that all I'm doing right now is talking about myself. I suppose that's what a blog is for, but something I've realized, as I said before, is that I can't do anything by myself. Don't laugh at me for believing in divine intervention, because I don't know why people think it's such a funny idea. But I really did think that I could do everything. Just me and all my "potential" that all the teachers say I have then find themselves disappointed at how I never quite live up to expectations. It might be possible that I believe in myself too much. Or it might be that I've watched too many movies and have convinced myself that things will just work themselves out. I can't really get at what's so wrong with me, but I know something is.

And another thing that suddenly struck me was how some people just grew up. Actually, how all of us just grew up. I don't know how it happened. So I went to some peoples' facebooks and started sifting through the virtual photos, trying to pinpoint the exact picture where everyone grew up. I couldn't. But if you just look at the last picture, and the most recent picture, well, the difference is so apparent and so shocking. I can't get over it. I wanted to cry. But that's not saying much, since I cry about almost everything, but I suppose it makes up for the laughter.

I need to stop immersing myself in the stories of the girls in chick flicks. They're not even real.

The faces I hate the most

There are some virtual smilies that simply nag me and beg to tear the last jitter-nerves in me apart. I never really knew why, so these are my lame attempts at excuses for disliking them so much. I do not mean any offense, LOL, in fact, this will probably only make me sound like a jerk who hates people in general. I really do not mind if you use these faces; this is just for my own entertainment. But, in no particular order:

1. o.O what is that face? Firstly, it's not even physically possibly to make one eye that much larger than the other eye. The nose/mouth/period is completely unnecessary as well; it makes it look like a dog, or an animal of sorts. But secondly, this face probably represents the most hated face in real life- that face that sore losers make when they sincerely think I'm strange and would rather keep me away from the kids. It's the silent "what-are-you-smoking-you're-absurdly-weird-get-off-of-this-planet" face. It makes me self-conscious. I'm a poor, insecure girl. Honestly, this face makes me back off, reread what I wrote, wonder if it was really that weird, then make me even more paranoid than I already am.

2. o.o It's probably the nose again. But what's up with this face too? It's not O.O and it's not .__. so what is it?! Wouldn't it just be normal eyes then? It's the kind of "woah-okay-you're-freaking-me-out" face, but it's too timid to stick up for itself and just do the whole out O.O already. Come on, either you put both feet in or you keep out of the water.

3. XD I do not know why I dislike this face. I use it myself, occasionally. In fact, this is probably what my face looks like in real life. I just feel like this face doesn't fully encompass everything it's supposed to mean. This face is supposed to be a wholehearted guffaw, but it comes out as a silent "you're-funny-but-I'm-not-actually-laughing" face. I know that's not what you mean by it, but I feel like the "HAHAHA"s and the "LOLOL"s and the excess of exclamation marks better suffice.

4. "..." I know that is not a face. But this is probably the worst of them all. Because I do not know how to respond to these lifeless dots. They just make me feel like a loser.

5. -.- It really is the nose. This face just reminds me of that chubby Mashimaro doll. Although I do think it's a cute stuffed animal, I don't agree that you're quite the same. I'd prefer you use -___- or --; LOL. I am so picky with these faces.

6. ;D This face is the worst when used by one of the male gender. It belongs to the creepy pedophile, and I'd rather not believe that my guy friends fall under that category. It also implies unneeded sexual innuendos that only my husband should be allowed to say to me. The wink is just creepy in general. Who winks? Where's that even come from? Who decided that closing one eye while grinning ear to ear would imply something sensual? Goodness, this world that we live in.

Well, now you know how to virtually bother me.

I think I'll go post something pertaining to my life now. :) <-- that is a good smiley.

a quarter portrait

This is a quarter of me.

I'm making it a mission to find my other three fourths.

I apologize for the short title-less posts,

but I've been having short thoughts.

They come in bursts.

As I'm sure you've found out by now,

with the five posts in one day,

then those two weeks

of nothingness.

I was going to say though that

anonymous comments

really creep me out.

And that I just realized today that tomorrow is the last day of junior year.

And that I will miss it.

And that if I'm ever doubting that You're there,

all I need to do

is walk outside.

Oh gosh, I'm having unrealistic romantic fantasies with anonymous strangers again.

Make it stop.

Epic Mafia has taught me

When you start pretending, you begin to realize how easy it is. How easy it is to deceive people, fool them, mess with them, use them, and still not feel guilty at all. I used to believe that these people would one day be stricken with grief and decide to change their ways, that they'd just drop their plate one day with some epiphany etched in their eyes and with their mouths shaped in the perfect little "o," and that they'd be different. Just like that. I used to think that I could change people.

But they honestly couldn't care less about what you or I say. They live their lives, we live ours. Occasionally they'll sweep into your life and ruin it, pretend to love you then crush you, lift you up then stomp you down. Usually they'll leave you on the ground. But occasionally they'll change and transform into glittering testimonials, and sure you can credit yourself for the transformation, if you're really that egotistical. But it's all so deceiving.

I used to trust everyone. And I'm half-proud to say now that I don't trust very many people anymore. Humans just aren't meant to be trusted, I suppose. (But there are those few girls who I love so much and you know who you are. I trust you guys:)

And what's weird is that I always thought I knew people. I thought I had more insight than other people had and could tell straightaway if someone was trustworthy or not, or if he's a good guy, or a bad guy, or if he really loves your or if he's just playing. I thought I knew! But I don't. I'm wrong half the time, and now I'm just making up things, probably. I don't know anything about anyone, so I should probably stop acting like I do. Nobody is who he is face value. Nobody.

Oye. I hate doubting myself. But I do.

I need to spend some time with myself. Honestly, I'm losing it again. I blame the game.

I thought I knew what I feared most. I thought it was pain. Physical pain. The slits on the wrist, or the throat, the bleeding from the head, the sharp blade that comes closer and closer. Or the chainsaw. Or a fire.

But now, I'm thinking that I fear that no one will love me, or people are talking bad things behind my back. I'm deathly afraid of that too, I realized. I'm so paranoid. I do want to be loved, I do...

But I actually think I'd pick the latter over the former. Still afraid of physical pain.

But then again... living an entire life without feeling loved is a pretty darned hard life to live.

On the Radio by Regina Spektor

lol: turn off the music from my own mp3 player-- bottom left sidebar

This is my new favorite Regina Spektor song. Every new song I hear by her ends up being my favorite, actually. Her voice is so unique, and her lyrics are fantastic too. Mmm. Such happy music:)

This is how it works: you're young until you're not.

You love until you don't.

You try until you can't.

You laugh until you cry.

You cry until you laugh.

And everyone must breathe until their dying breath.

No, this is how it works: you peer inside yourself.

You take things you like,

and try to love the things you took.

And then you take that love you made

and stick it into some--

someone else's heart

pumping someone else's blood

And walking arm in arm, you hope it don't get harmed,

But even if it does,

you'll just do it all again.

This is so great. Some things are just inevitable; you can't control everything. You can only do so much- I think that's why she mentions how they listened to the song on the radio twice. It's happening, and there's nothing to stop it, so you might as well just pause and listen to the long solo. And she portrays love in words so well... it's as if she's giving two different views on love- one's a bit apathetic toward the idea, and the other's hopeful. But they're both true.

And she even says that you gotta love yourself before you can love someone else. My goodness, I love Regina Spektor. She could teach us so much. Try listening to some of her other songs.

"The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

A task for you.

1. Go to Google.com

2. Type in "Who's the cutest?"

3. Click I'm feeling lucky.

It's a flood of memories when there's grammar mistakes.

I was going to rant about history and how we obviously never learn from our mistakes, but then suddenly, all these memories overflowed my mind, and it was, as sad as it is, more real than the flood in Indonesia or the earthquake in Haiti. And my heart hurts.

It hurts for those hot summer days when everything's too humid and too sticky and the ice pop's melting rapidly in your hand but it's worth it because the little girl's lying in your lap and playing with your hair. It hurts for that one breeze that just halts your movements and pulls out a sigh of relief. It hurts for all that chalk those kids wasted on me, that vicious shirt-eating thing that crumbled colors and drew smiles. It hurts for that day when I was dressed in the same clothes I'm dressed in now, this blue tanktop and white shorts, when I looked in the mirror and pretended to love my (un)luscious lips and became a star on Shocco's next top model. It hurts for that six flags trip that ended up brining my personal fitness grade down five points because I skipped a day of summer school, but it's okay because we rode Goliath three times and that's all that matters. It hurts for those endless nights of fountain hopping on Stanford's campus, when it was too cold to stand in the water but we did it anyway so that the hot chocolate could taste better afterwards. It hurts for those nail-painting sessions and the fumes that nearly suffocated me, but that was a really pretty gold. It hurts for the park across from Vanderbilt. It hurts for that night when the clouds moved across the sky faster than I imagine jet planes to move, as if they were going on an important excursion to some important place, like heaven. It hurts for the days at the pool, the pizza consumed, the frisbees thrown. The somersaults before frisbee games. The countless korean circle games, most of which I don't even remember. The putt-putt that never gets old. The lake that's too dirty to swim in but perfect for paddle boating. The fresh smell of those rooms, the chilling air conditioning that's always too cold, or too hot, the stiff beds, the Kix. It hurts for those girl conversations late at night, with all flavors of Mochi ice cream and all kinds of poker games to play afterwards.

It hurts, but it's soothed. I'm so at peace when I listen to this korean music that's playing right now and remember all those great memories. Whirlwind, Nashville, Shocco, Stanford... I'm so ready for summer. I can taste it. Everything already feels lighter. And brighter.

And I'm going to miss those seniors so much. I don't think you understand the extent to which how different it'll be next year. I'm going to be the big (wo)man now... I never thought I'd actually reach this point. I never thought it'd come. But it's coming. Holy crap,

There's only two more weeks of school.

APUSH in eight hours.

Now's about the time when I start scheming of ways to make a time machine- not anything too special, just a nice, simple one- so that I can go back in time and hold back those overly ambitious Spanish and British and French from discovering the New World so early on. Maybe convince them to wait two hundred years. That way, there wouldn't be so much to study. The AP test would probably just have thirty questions or so about how some little Asian girl named Jessie prevented the European countries from expanding. That would be great, please.

I have plenty to say and plenty to study, but the past has defeated me and I'm going to sleep.

Eff.

I just wanted to say that I just read five hundred pages of U.S. history text in two days.

holy mother duck.

All I know is that I'd hate to be a historian.

family conversations

Brother: Where's the pump?!

Mom: Do you have problems?!

Brother: The bicycle's tire is flat!

Mom: Can't you pump it?!

Brother: Where's the freaking pump?!

Mom: The freaking pump is in your freaking mind!!

I love my family. I wish I could write down everything they say.

Me: [singing to Bieber on the radio] baby, baby, baby, oh!

Mom: Jeez, this kid's had fourteen babies already!

Mom: I love eating the skin of the chicken!

Brother: But you told me before not to eat it because it has too much oil!

Mom: Well, it's okay for me, because I'm skinny!

Me: Mom, why are you eating chocolate? You hate chocolate.

Mom: Well, I'm growing fat and old, so I must eat chocolate!

Me: Wait, what...?

Me: [singing] Let's pretend we don't exist. Let's pretend we're in Antarctica.

Mom: What? You don't exist? Like water bubbles! Pop! Pop! They look so pretty in the sun, but then, pop!

Me: So profound, mommy!!

Brother: Do you think I should start learning Chinese before it's too late?

Dad: Jonathan! I knew you'd come to your sense one day! Wow, this is so great! We can practice in the car, and I'll teach you everything. We'll have lessons at home. I'll get out all my old Chinese teaching books so that we can have lessons back at home, and it'll be great since it's free! I knew it!

Me: Have you heard of that stereotype where Asians always take too many napkins from restaurants?

Mom: [offended] What?! I do not take too many napkins from restaurants! I only take what I need! [takes about ten napkins] See?

[click here] for CRP conversation

It is time to get serious and get cracking. I'm going to try extremely hard to study for AP exams like I should. I must. Back in a week or so; don't leave!

haven't changed! Thanks parents!

People don't need to be rich.

You know this world is messed up when an actress can make 20 million dollars for one movie, and a firefighter can only make 40,000 for one year.

Does that not seem just slightly outrageous? Firefighters literally risk their lives as a job description, and what do actresses do? Entertain? No wonder there's a freaking money problem right now. I don't mean to seem ostentatious because the truth is, I have absolutely no inkling about money and economics (it goes right over my head), but I hate that all the rich people who hoard all of this country's money hardly do anything to better this world. Athletes? What do they do, hit a ball, and receive million-dollar contracts?

And the terrible thing is that we're the ones funding it all, and there's really no way to change it all. I can't even help it; the hype around movies are too much to pass up, as I'm sure is the same for the Superbowl and the World Cup and March Madness. And so much money is being spent on these public figures, that we're forgetting the people who actually matter, like the teachers. Oh my gosh it saddens me when I think about all these budget cuts surrounding education. What, no more music education in elementary school? Possibly no more GHP? Cuts on teachers? Larger class sizes? What's the deal? I view education as an extremely important part of our lives that should not be subjected to these budget cuts. And it's not like money is rapidly disappearing from the surface of the earth either, it's still there. It's just all in the banks of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton and Tiger Woods, the people who do so freaking much for this world. You know, Africa could really learn from Tiger Wood's morals, and South America should pick up some intelligence from Paris Hilton. What are they even making money for? Oh my gosh, we're one of the richest nations in the world, and we can't even fund education. Maybe I'm just not getting this; someone please enlighten me of the way economics works.

I hate people, I really do sometimes. And I'm so scared for my children. If I even have any. At this rate, it seems like the world really will end soon.

All the best are bonkers

Hatter: Have I gone mad?

Alice: Yes, you're entirely bonkers. But i'll tell you a secret - all the best are.

I finished Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll a few days ago, and it was nothing like the movie. Instead, it had no moral, and it was wonderful. I'm glad I watched the movie first; the animation was beautiful enough to satisfy me throughout the book. What book to read now?

let's be in love and dance

I would very much like one day to have a boy who feels like this because of me, please:

Or better yet, I'd like to feel like that. I can't even imagine how that's gotta feel... it must be an amazing feeling, really.

Yesterday (and the day before) were great.

The best days are the ones when you can let go of everything bothersome and school-related, and just have fun. There's no such thing as stress when you're falling 150 feet with the wind rushing against your face and your hands raised boldly in the air. No such thing as school in the sky. I love adrenaline...

And it gets better when you feel beautiful while having fun (laser tagging in dresses!). A Charlie's Angel? Oh heck yes. Although we lost miserably, it was the best night I've had in quite a while. I'm going to miss my graduating seniors, that's for sure.

Airplanes by B.o.B ft. Hayley Williams

Can we pretend that airplanes
In the night sky
Are like shooting stars?
I could really use a wish right now.

I don't think people realize that I love good rap music. Really, rap isn't just for "gangsters" or "wannabe gangsters," or whatever, and just because I'm an Asian girl, doesn't exclude me from being capable of liking music other than Hannah Montana. And rap's most definitely not something that should just be about having sex with girls, like all the mainstream stuff is like nowadays. It's catchy and it makes money, that's for sure, but good rap is emotional, and it's real. It's not afraid to tell it as it is. Have you heard of Dessa? I'll feature a post on her some other time. Eminem's great too. I love slam poetry, how could I not like rap?

Anyways, B.o.B's a good mainstream rapper, as Ed said. And I gotta say, Hayley Williams was a great choice for this song. She's the lead in Paramore.