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.