Auld Sang Lyne or Whatever

2009 was a special year. There was just something about it that made the entire annual experience utterly miserable. It sucked. Royally.

Some of the more memorable moments have been:

- Whoring myself out to guys winter semester
- Failing a class spring semester
- Sucking at my summer internship
- Taking an economics class fall semester
- Not turning in ANY of my final assignments during exam week

In fact, the only one good thing I can think of at the moment is that I passed this fall semester. That’s it. I mean, I still have my health and my friends & family and yadda yadda yadda, but at this point I’ve just taken all of that for granted. I always will. My parents’ business has been ailing and ailing, and 2009 forced them to try new business ventures i. e., buy a restaurant in another state and travel there several times a year to check on it. Great. Here I thought there was no other way I could possibly worry about them any more than I am now. So God—anything else you’d like to throw at me? I can take it, go on, really.

Also, as the icing on top of my craptastic cake is a violent outbreak of eczema on all of my joints. As if I weren’t repulsive enough to the opposite sex, hurray.
I’m glad this year is almost over.

Good riddance.

Fuck college.

Fuck the economy.

Fuck my life.

Fuck it all to hell.

SOS

I am stuck in Texas. What started out innocently enough as a family vacation-cum-business trip into the Lone Star State as quickly escalated into a one-week stay in Boredom Hell. Someone for the love of God please get me out of here.

I have limited internet access and only one book to entertain me.

My situation is dire.

I have a flight on the 4th to catch. Can't really miss it, else I miss the first few days of winter semester. Eh.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH HELP MEEEEEEE.

To Celebrate My Recent (Temporary) Liberation From Academia...

A Second Chance

Grades were posted today. Remember that list I made all those weeks ago of all the papers/assignments I had to turn in? Yeah, never did them.

But I passed.

Somehow.

Three Bs and an A. My hands couldn't stop shaking as I typed as typo-free as possible to get to my student account and click on "Grades and Transcripts." It had to have been some sort of mistake. No way can I still pass without turning in my final paper for Economics, my critical summary & final paper for English, and my final two stories for Advanced Fiction. No way. Hell has officially frozen over.

Is some higher power looking down on me? What is s/he/it trying to say?

I'm having trouble breathing.

Whoever and wherever you are, thank you--so, so much.

Diarrhea of the Mouth

I have pulled up the Create Post page several times today thinking that I would have enough on my mind to make an entry but apparently not. Finally, I decided to go ahead and try anyway. So this post is legitimately about nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Neat, huh? I've never done it before. I'm at home. I stay up late and don't sleep much. I surf the web. I work. I pretend I don't have papers (yes, PAPERS) that still need to be emailed to expectant professors. I earn money. I spend money. I don't save money. I buy Hot Fries with 50% of my tips. I inhale the bags in one gulp. I drop my brother off at the bus stop at 6:45am. I pick him up later at 4:15pm. We watch cartoons via YouTube on his laptop. Life is peachy.

Except for the Unfinished Papers part.

Will There Be a Charming Third Time?

I cheated on my economics exam.

It wasn't hard to pull off. My professor made it self-scheduled so all I had to do was show up at the designated building at some point in the week, sign-in at the desk, and complete the damn thing. I did all of that except for the part where I did not go to the test room and instead headed for the library where I then proceeded to pour over my notes and textbooks, verifying answers on Google when necessary. Two and a half hours later, I returned to the other building and turned my test back in with a slight frown on my face. It doesn't matter though; I still had a hard time answering the questions. The gods would be smiling down upon me if I get a B.

No, I don't feel bad. It was something I had to do to prevent myself from fucking up academically again this year. I had rather not come down to that option, but I'll take it when enough's at stake. Yeah. I'd do it again. I've done it before.

Like I Didn't See This Coming

I have lost all motivation to complete Finals Week.

I fail at life.

SNL > Finals Week

Exams? What Exams?

Bespectacled

I didn't realize how much I'm attracted to people who wear glasses until this past week. The Current Object of my Irrational Lust came in to class wearing glasses, which had never happened before. It clicked.

~~

When you wear glasses, it makes me want to rip them off your face. They're like a barrier, a front. I get to see the real you if I take them away. There's something very controlled--composed-- about people who wear glasses (or they give off that impression anyway), and I want to break through that facade. Oh I think of all sorts of brute, nasty words: rip, tear, break, destroy, shatter, defile, violate, taint, the list goes on. Ah me, I'm a bit freaky.

I love glasses. Especially wire-rimmed ones.

Black Hole of Unproductivity

I spent 3 hours downloading K-pop music when I could have been doing homework.

I wanna go home now please.

Just Got Back From Thanksgiving Holidays (Don't Feel Like Writing an Actual Post)

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cummings was an ass but i like him anyway

(once like a spark)

if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
kind neither
nor cruel
(only complete)
i not not you
not possible;
only truthful
-truthfully, once
if strangers(who
deep our most are
selves)touch:
forever

(and so to dark)

~~~

This poem kicks so much more ass than his more well-known "somewhere i have never travelled."

It's That Time of Year Again

1. Critical Summary Paper for English (2-3 pages)

2. Final English Paper (5-8 pages)

3. Maroeconomics Paper (8-10 pages)

4. Advanced Fiction Exam Pieces:

- Part 3 of "Waiting on"
- "if strangers meet" oneshot

5. Character/Scene Analysis for Beginning Acting

~~~~~

And I didn't even mention what I'll be doing for exam week. Commence Super-productivity Mode...

NOW.

Gaga For Gaga

Perfidy, Thy Name is Writing

At 10:30am, Rhonda is here early, a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. She rolls the car window down halfway and sticks her arm out, cigarette dangling from her fingertips. An elderly man exits Fred’s with his shopping cart full of clothes, picture frames, and other odds and ends because the dollar store will be closing down in three more weeks. He is followed by a steady stream of other customers—families, more old people, local crazies, anybody really. They all split and go their separate ways to corresponding minivans and pick-up trucks. It is technically still morning, but the tiny shopping plaza’s parking lot is already teeming with life.

As they pass by, Rhonda hears and occasionally listens to snatches of murmured conversation that have nothing to do with her. The topics are mundane for the most part, about picking up dry cleaning and grocery lists, routines not unlike her own, but for some reason seem so much more interesting coming from someone else’s mouth. She breathes out a cloud of smoke, suddenly remembering to buy more milk today or Davis will be eating dry cereal the next morning. She would ask Jacob to buy it, but more than likely he would wind up buying the whole milk variety despite the fact that ten percent is the only kind that makes any appearance in the fridge—which, she notes again, is also in need of a general restocking. However, her husband is not to blame; he is hardly ever at home.

Rhonda flicks ash from her cigarette. Today she needs to clean the napkin holders and spray down the tables, the latter of which will leave her hands smelling like Pledge Furniture Polish. The owner, no matter how hectic and hurried a rush she is in, might even drop by for a brief inspection that somehow manages to find at least one thing Rhonda had forgotten to do on her last shift. Therefore she will need to work early and work fast. Thankfully, Wednesday mornings are usually slow, with business eventually picking up by five or six when people begin eating in before it is time to go to evening church service. The corners of her mouth quirk up. She cannot remember the last time she has been to church.

Bordering Fred’s is Rite Aid and bordering Rite Aid is Lisa’s Place, where Rhonda can see Katherine’s strawberry-blonde head coming out with an armful of rug. The high-schooler unceremoniously dumps it on the sidewalk and uses her feet to smooth the folds and creases. She then returns inside, flipping the cardboard sign to O P E N. Rhonda looks down at her watch—11:00am. She takes one last drag, drops the cigarette, and grabs her oversized purse from the passenger’s seat. Her heel grinds the rest of the cigarette stub into the pavement as she gets out of the car. Time for work.

Cough Drops n' Orange Juice

Please, God, let me sleep away these next two weeks so I can wake up on Thanksgiving Day and see my family.

A-men.

Why Have I Never Heard of Jesse Williams Until Today?

Anatomy of a Reading

Set-Up: Ornate rug. Dusty thick tomes in handsome dusty brown shelves. Pseudo-antiquated chandelier hanging overhead. Non-functional fireplace with marble framing. Portrait of a dead old white man.

Speaker: Bespectacled man of ambiguous age and articulate voice. Fair-skinned and stoop-shouldered, he adjusts his glasses with long, delicate fingers as his other hand makes scholarly gestures to an enraptured audience. Medium height, medium build (but on the light side, of course.) Coughs politely. Boring as a pile of rocks by the side of the road.

Listeners:

Male Professors - Shaved or unshaved. Grey streaked hair with distinct noses. Dark tan blazers over black turtlenecks. Blue jeans. Glasses. Portfolios in one hand, coffee mugs in the other. Majority of coffee mugs will have witty quote by a famous dead author.

Female Professors - Hair varying (though usually short or in a bun). Rich red hued turtlenecks with polished wool coats. Either smart, slim slacks or bright swishing skirts that sweep the floor. Glasses. Sensible heeled boots. Portfolios in one hand, coffee mugs in the other.

Thoughts: I don't really understand the appeal of readings. Why is everyone so stiff and quiet? The speaker isn't particularly exciting, but his voice does sound nice. There's something so fake and smarmy about attending a reading though. I feel elitist just sitting here. I don't even know what he's reciting half the time. I suppose afterward everyone will clap softly, and the wizened professors of this fine institution for higher learning will surround the mini-celebrity--cum--Robert Frost Fellow, asking lofty questions in measured, murmured tones. Is this what I should look forward to becoming?

Once v2.0 (I APPROVE)

UST

So...I can't stand it when you raise your hand in class, and the professor makes a gesture that prompts you to spew forth another one of your obnoxious diatribes on the workshopped story's faults. Problems. Mistakes. Whatever you call them, I don't care. Point is, I don't agree with anything you say. I think you're wrong: completely, totally, utterly. I wonder what you snorted right before class that you could be able to cook up something so ridiculously far-fetched that people could still recognize it as an opinion. The part I love the most is that as much as you trash stories, your own work isn't much to brag about. This is an opportunity where I could go off on your pieces, but I won't because I'm a good person. Also, I'm too lazy, and the list of your writer issues would require another post. Anyway.

You're an asshole, and you own up to it. Fine, I can respect you for that. However, what crawled up your ass and died? Why are you always on my case? I don't even want to say something resembling a declarative statement in front of you, lest the hint of whatever emotional investment mysteriously imbued in my dialogue incites your inner douchebaginess and has you automatically challenging me to a verbal sparring match, which--obviously--I am too lazy to be bothered with. So, explain yourself please. Go annoy someone else. It's apparent enough that we have differing views and opinions, and I don't like to argue and debate. Why latch on to me? Take for instance this past Tuesday night. For the better part of an hour, you attempted to provoke me in every way possible after the (thankfully) one class we shared was over.

Okay, maybe I'm being too mean about this. Maybe there exists some redeeming qualities deep deep DEEP within you. It would be nice if you revealed them now and show me that you are more than just another typical, arrogant, obnoxious musician/wanna-be writer. Otherwise, I don't think I have it in me to forgive myself for what I'm about to confess:

You're really infuriating and really weird and I really want to jump your bones. Really, really badly. I can't even explain it. Fuckity fuck fuck.

Age is Just a Number

I like my ex-advisor from high school. Eleven years isn't too bad, yeah?

Fuck.

I Like Death Cab For Cutie And I'm Not Ashamed to Admit It

There's a tear in the fabric of your favorite dress
And i'm sneaking glances.
Looking for the patterns in static
They start to make sense the longer i'm at it.

Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho

Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And i am the fish who can't reach the cord.

Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho

Oh, instincts are misleading
You shouldn't think what you're feeling
They don't tell you what you know you should want.

Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho, oo wha-ho
[x2]

Oh, instincts are misleading
You shouldn't think what you're feeling
They don't tell you want you know you should want.

Ivory lines lead
Oo wha-ho.
[x2]

Too Lazy to Write a Post

I Want a Twinkie Now

How to Become Homeless in Less Than Ten Days

I am now an English major.

OH SHIT WAIT I CHANGED MY MIND I DON'T WANT TO BE A HOBO PLEASE--

Too late. Did I make the right decision?! T__T

An Inconvenient Truth

I have a lot of friends who are, for some reason or other, psychologically damaged. I don't know why or how I attract them, but it happens. All the time. Maybe it's because I had sensed an inner darkness within them from the get-go (which would be about the only thing I can sense), and I had an irresistible need to figure them out. Maybe they're like my little projects that I want to fix--do I even like fixing things? I'm not sure. I'll let you know when I come to a satisfying answer.

Or maybe I can just cut to the chase and admit that the reason I'm so much closer to my fucked-up friends is because I'm looking for darkness within myself too. That sentence makes about as much sense as quantum physics, but it's true. I come from a loving, happy family that has its own hang-ups and issues, but nothing like what I've heard from other people. The more Dirty Secrets they tell me, the less complicated and interesting I feel as a person. I come off boring and two-dimensional because I'm always vacillating between giddiness or mopeyness. And whenever I am legitimately sad, my reasons for it pale in comparison to some of my friends' deep, dark Depression Sessions.

It's as if I don't have a right to feel anger or sadness or depression or any other negative emotion because I come from such lucky circumstances. What reason do I have, really? I wasn't abused or abandoned or neglected or had parents who shot up and drank every day. Sure, I've been hurt by a guy. I have a semi-complicated relationship with my father. I've tried to commit suicide before. All of these are isolated incidents though (except the dad bit.) Other than that and a few other minor problems I won't delve into, I am whole and undamaged. I am normal.

So no matter how strange I am with my noises and sound effects and laughs, or emo about my family/self-existential mini-crises, I am still considered to be normal by society's standards.

And I hate normal.

This post sounds selfish and self-absorbed, which is kinda the point of having a blog, but anyway. I'm not making light of my friends' Closet Skeletons. I don't want to exist in that extreme; I wouldn't wish it on anyone either. Somewhere in the middle would be nice, though. I can be interesting and multi-layered and mysterious and complicated and hard to figure out.

Instead I am a typical, normal girl lost in a sea of typical, normal people. And that is a truth I'd rather not say out loud.

Into You Like a Train(wreck)

Dear *****,

I've known you since we first exchanged hellos at the April Preview in Middlebury. From that point on, we've been in the same freshman seminar, the same dormitory, the same circle of friends--same everything. Fast forward one year: not only are we in the same dorm building and floor, we're in the same suite. One year, six months. That's how long I've been aware of your existence. That is also a lengthy amount of time for me to desensitize myself to you. You know, of course, what I'm talking about.

A fair number of my friends like you, and you've hooked up with some of them. From what I've seen, you neither discriminate nor have a specific preference. Anyone goes (which is nice.) Now this is the part where I stop sounding so eloquent.

In all the months of knowing you, there have always been two crucial assumptions underlying our every interaction: 1. I'm not your type, which means there is 0% chance of us ever bumping uglies, and 2. You're not my type either. I have a mini-confession to make. Even though you're not my type, that doesn't mean I never sneak an admiring glance or two at you. Dude, you're freaking eye candy (and you know it.)

So while assuming from the get-go that the day we ever make sexytime is when hell freezes over, I have been perfectly content being friends with you. Whenever my friends make comments like, "DAMN HE'S HOT!" or "RAWR DELICIOUS!" I laugh and say (with no small amount of smugness), "He's my suitemate, you know." All without melting into a puddle. So of course in the midst of this semi-happiness, God decides to mock me--again. Meaning that you decide to ATTEMPT to make a move on me, for the first time ever aowfashfju.

I have to hand it to myself: I had desensitized my senses to you to the point of looking at your post-shower-droplet dripping bod with nothing but indifference. Yes, I'm that good. Then again, I managed to pull it off because I had thought I would never have a shot with you. Until this weekend, where you TOTALLY MESSED THAT UP. Despite the fact that we were thisclose to making whoopie on your bed (WITH YOUR ROOMMATE ASLEEP AND IN THE SAME ROOM NO LESS), I said no and stopped it before one of us lost all vestiges of self-control. I'm glad I said no; otherwise, I would just be another notch on your bedpost. Instead, I'm the one who got away.

That's not to say, however, that I have absolutely no regrets. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to tell you "No, I can't?" It was only when I touched you that I realized the full extent of what I had been missing out on. I was not desensitized in those moments. I've said it in real life, and I'll say it here: you are one hot motherfucker. There isn't one area on your body that isn't toned and smooth, and you smell wonderful. Like, fabric softener-faint soap whiff-cocoa butter fucking awesome. Sigh. I was crazy to go back to my room alone, but I did it.

In conclusion, I must redo the desensitizing process. It will take a while, but it will happen. At least nothing's awkward between us. See you later, suitemate.

Arousingly Yours in Dreams Only,
Esa

Headlights

I'm trying to fight off the residual effects of drunkenness that still have a tight hold on me so I apologize for the typos and lack of grammar/syntax. I went out tonight for the sole reason of getting drunk and forgetting I had work to do the following day. I had fun in my friends' room, dancing to Spanish beats with a bottle of Smirnoff in my hand. And then I returned to my room several hours later, stumbling along the way.

After all the alcohol wears off, I still feel unfulfilled and hollow. I wonder how long this feeling will last.

Chasing Pavements

Adele lyrics

Adele Chasing Pavements Video - Adele Music Videos

Music Videos by VideoCure

Potential is Beautiful

I know people don't believe me when I say that I don't mind staying in the so-called dreaded friend zone, but I really don't. After all, I've been in this same exact position for the past two years (with the exception of one sham of an ex-relationship) so why should this time be any different? I can't say with certainty that I do indeed belong to the Friend Zone, but I'd rather not find out. I'll just assume. Makes it easier.

This feared area may seem like the end of the world, but to me, it's this vast plain of unrealized possibilities. The could-have-beens, the what-ifs, the should-have-beens, the if-onlys. An oasis for my imagination. I may never experience The Reality, but I can always wrap myself in conjured images and hypothetical situations--if they're already so vivid inside my head then do I truly need a tangible version too? Daydreams are enough for me.

What happens if you do like me? What happens if we start dating halfway through the school year? What happens if you aren't the person I've been hoping for? I'd be even more disappointed and heartbroken than had I simply stayed inside my dreamland. I can't stand to have my expectations unmet. Believe me, things are better off this way. If you actually are an insensitive, emotionally unavailable person, then at least I'll never know this because I'll be too busy playing pretend games. My mind is so much sweeter than what I have to face (and accept) outside my head.

Go ahead and call me pathetic. That's right; I'm an escapist. I don't want you unless you're perfect, and this is why I will always be in the friend zone. The Reality of being with you isn't worth if you fall short of what I expect of you. I'm terrified of being hurt too. Once was more than enough. So laugh at me. I don't mind.

Today My Dad Turns 50

It’s always difficult to exactly define our relationship. The best way to sum it up cannot be explained in words, and neither is it so easy to see. You would have to catch the both of us unaware and candid in our natural states: I, surreptitiously sneaking a foot across the white-painted doorway of my room, and he—worn, tired, and hungry—just entering the house with his glasses slowly slipping down his head. And even then, the moment might be over so quickly that your human eyes would not be able to catch it; that by the time you blink to adjust to a more focused scene, time has resumed its normal operations, and I would be quietly reading in my room while he would have long disappeared into his own office. Sure enough, you would hear the report on CNN from the downstairs television not five minutes later.

Everyone is always fast asleep by then. The lights are always turned off, and the only bright source is my glowing computer screen. I always hear the soft little click of the door being turned before I do anything else. Quickly, I switch the screen off, grab my phone, and try to close my bedroom door before the garage door opens, letting him in. Sometimes I manage to get away without a word, sometimes not.

“Esa?”

Today he has caught me, and the elusive scene must take place. This isn’t new. I look over the wooden railing, down to his uplifted face where I can plainly see the weariness of seventy-plus hour workweeks and sleepless nights of constant worry, of caring for a family and paying the bills. But I also see his temper that simmered—boiled—after each argument, each lecture, each exchange passed between us; my hot, angry tears that inevitably appeared afterward; and the tentative returns to our late night, almost run-ins with each other.

Maybe I can say something different to him tonight, make my “goodnight” mean a bit more. He is still standing there looking at me. Perhaps he too, expects a little more from me this time. Or maybe he is so lost in thought, in his work, that I’ve again become some piece of decorative furniture in his house. I cannot tell what he’s thinking from here. And I should say something different tonight, if only to catch him off guard.

“Hi, Dad.”

And yet, in the end, I can’t. Something always holds me back. The usual response comes out of my mouth, and he stares at me for a second more before nodding and walking away, grunting slightly as he shuts the office door closed. Sighing, I eventually retreat to my room and attempt to sleep, the same image from tonight—every night, every night—burned into my mind: the hurt, the disappointment, and (yes, of course) the love etched on his face as he turned away from me. I pull the covers over my head. I’ll tell him later. There’s too much to say in that one little moment anyway. How do I tell someone how much I love him? Or how sad he can make me feel at times?

Once again, the precise essence of our relationship has eluded me, and I close my eyes and promise myself that I will definitely tell him someday, if not tomorrow night when I try again.

So Spot On I Don't Even Know What to Say Here

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Oops I Did It Again

So this summer I made a pledge not to engage in any hanky-panky activity for the fall semester of sophomore year in Middlebury College.

This Saturday night I met this guy from University of Vermont at 11:30pm and played a bit of tonsil hockey with him by around 3:00am I was a tease, of course because I always have second doubts whenever I bring someone back to my room, and then I wind up not doing anything seriously sexy. So they leave early. Which happened this time too.

I need to buy another jar so I can put my self-respect in there.

I think I should bitchslap myself because I'm apparently still under the impression that I can be that casual hook-up weekend girl when I haven't even lost my virginity yet. Until that time comes, I'm going to be a wanna-be (and a very bad one at that. complete poseur.) I suppose I'm just lonely, which kinda sucks because I don't have enough time in my daily schedule to be in a relationship.

Guess I'm stuck.

You Are Untouchable

I know you didn't notice what I was doing when your elbow was perched on the back of my chair as you chatted with a friend so I rest assured that my words will be safely undiscovered here. You suspect nothing. You expect nothing. You know nothing. And I am perfectly fine with that.

I kept my eyes soft and unfocused so no one could see that I was carefully tracing the outline of your sleeve that made a sharp "v" down the side of your torso, gently inclining into the long expanse of one pants leg--dark jean, by the way. I inhaled. You didn't have much of a scent: traces of deodorant, soap, and perhaps a hint of cigarette smoke. Not exactly a seductive, compelling aroma.

Meanwhile, I processed this assessment in all of two seconds, and just as quickly you glided away from my line of vision, off to charm someone else with your unaffected grace and nonchalant confidence. Combined with your private, cat-like smile, I'm surprised admirers aren't throwing themselves at your glorious feet, fawning and swooning all the while. Do I sound bitter? My apologies.

You belong to no one and to everyone. And yet, not anyone can simply have you. Sweet words slip out easily from your poet lips as the walled defenses shielding your true self rise ever higher and harden even more. I wonder if you have any time to care for someone special when you go around dispensing your almost-love to people who all want to be your one and only. But no--you're far too selfless and giving to even consider monogamy, aren't you? You minstrel. You troubadour.

For the most part I am content to quietly watch you from afar, my chin propped up on my hands, but sometimes I wish--just once--it is me you are turning towards for a chat as your elbow sits on the back of someone else's chair.

Taking Care of Business - BTO

Organizations:

1. Women Of Color (WOC)

2. African American Alliance (AAA)

3. Blackbird (literary magazine)

4. The Crampus (anti-school newspaper)

5. STILL SEEKING EMPLOYMENT HIRE ME PLZ >______>

Uh, I'm kinda busy O_o

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Hanh?

Pushing and Pulling
September 11 - 13

Drop your obligations and inhibitions on Friday when the friendly Gemini Moon dances through a delicious opposition of beauteous Venus and generous Jupiter. It's time to chat online and offline, to party and to play. It's all about making connections and sharing the pleasure of one another's company.

Saturday's mood is darker with lunar aspects to heavy Saturn and Pluto, and shockwaves from restless Uranus that frequently find one person trying to pull away while the other one holds on tightly. The Moon's shift into self-protective Cancer on Saturday afternoon takes you down a deep hole of feeling. Friday's flirtations are far behind, like rapidly digested sugars of immediate gratification. Now you have to face your family and the past. The good news is that chatty Mercury's intense 90-degree square to the Moon forces emotions to the surface, giving you a chance to talk about your feelings and even adding a little logic to lessen the drama. Sometimes, though, it's easier to use your thoughts to flee your feelings, and vice versa. Being present with both head and heart is the goal. You need to be bubbling with a healthy balance of brain and body and can't do it with an incompatible or unwilling person. Work it out on your own if you're not getting the kind of help you need from the outside.

Sophomore Year = Suffer More Year

Class Schedule:

1. Victoria's Secrets (English Literature XD), Mon Wed & Fri, 9:05am-9:55am

2. Intro to Macroeconomics O_O, Mon & Wed, 2:50pm-4:05pm

3. Beginning Acting, Tues & Thurs, 1:30pm-2:45pm

4. Advanced Fiction, Tues, 7:25pm-10:25pm

~~~~~~~

Saturday: Blackbird meeting (1 hour) & Club-Club meeting (2 hours)

Sunday: AAA meeting (1 hour) & WOC meeting (1 hour)

Oh yeah, and a job.

SO...I'm going to loathe this semester.

Re-do!

In 9 hours I will be in another plane flying back to Middlebury College, where I will then attempt to redeem myself for the Epic Academic Fuck-Up of spring semester 2009. Wish me luck, and Godspeed.

In Ten Years I Will Be Homeless

Majors I Am Interested In:

- English/Literature

- History of [insert country/movement/blah]

- Creative Writing >_>

- French

- Sociology/Anthropology

~~~~~~~

Majors That Bore Me to Tears

- Political Science

- anything Math

- anything Science/Engineering

- anything Business

- Economics





Ladies and Gentlemen, this is why I will be homeless in ten years.

Fox Always Makes Me Laugh

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There Are No Words to Describe The Hilarity

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Exactly.

A Cultural Exchange

Tuesday, August 25, 2009. Rockmart, Georgia. Dollar General. 9:20 PM.

I am standing in line to pay for milk and juice. There is one Customer behind me, and a Cashier waiting for my hard-earned money at the register.

Customer (looking at me): Hey, are you Japanese?

Cashier (ringing me up): Naw, she's Korean.

Cashier & Customer: Well what are you?

Me (pulling out cash): Wait, let me pay first.

Cashier (punching in numbers on the register): I'm good at telling them apart. This one time a girl came out of Sonic's, and I said to her, "You from Laos, ain'tcha?" And she said, "Yeah! How'd you guess?" Cuz I'm just good like that.

Customer: So what are ya?

Me (looking at both of them): I'm Chinese.

Cashier: Oh, well I got the continent right.

Me (looking at him, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth): There are a lot of countries in that continent.

/anecdote

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh Georgia. I'm going to miss you once I go back to school next Saturday.

Ellipse

IMOGEN HEAP'S NEW ALBUM IS FULL OF WIN : D

The Only Reason I Watch True Blood

I Don't Watch Fox News Because...

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The Tourist

What am I doing here?

Three Isn't Really a Crowd

I have 3 close friends, two of which I consider "best friends." Everyone else is divided into various categories such as Class Friends, Friendly Acquaintances, Meal-Time Buddies, and so on and so forth. Some Good Friends, a few Confidants, whatever. I don't consciously think of each person's friend label whenever I see him/her, but the rules of the category s/he belongs to are already implanted in my mind, filtering and controlling what I say to them, how I say it, for how long I stay talking to them, etc.

Occasionally, there will be a shifting of ranks; a girl from French class is promoted or a childhood friend in Georgia gets pushed down to another friend division. Demotions and parallel moves are more common than promotions. The transitions aren't abrupt, but subtly and unconsciously done. Sometimes I don't even realize it myself until long after the process has been completed. I know all of this sounds complicated, but it isn't, really. It's just hard to articulate what goes on in my head.

I almost never take on new Close Friends. I had been happy with one Best Friend for all four years of high school, and when she left, I managed to survive my senior year with my Very Good Friends. And then came college. I needed someone new, for this particular phase of my life. So I found two (and there was much rejoicing.) I'm not sure if people who know me are aware of the super-sneaky methods I use to select Potential Close Friends Or More. I won't go into details, but I usually drive all the candidates away by the time I decide to reveal my stranger habits. This is why I hardly ever change the ones I already have. I've invested too much at this point.

Alright, alright, I do have a point for this long-winded post: I simply feel lonely right now. I want to talk to someone (anyone), but the people whose voices I really want to hear are far away or busy. Sometimes I wish I had a million Close Friends whom I can text whenever I feel like it, call whenever I feel like it, and Facebook-stalk them without feeling sketchy.

Sometimes I wish I could make friends easily.

Speaking For The Man?

So I posted a op-ed type piece about waitressing tips as a note on Facebook and tagged some people so I could get comments...hmm love those comments. And then I get worried about how I sound when I read it again the next day. Do I sound too angry? Am I licking The Establishment's shoes? Why am I even stressing about this? Grr, I can't stand it when I start doubting myself so soon after I write something SOME friends found entertaining and informative. And TRUE.

Why should certain persons I shall not name on this site make me feel bad about what I believe to be true and sensible? STOP THAT XO

And Certain Persons, stop complaining. You guys have no idea how good you've got it with my mom as your boss. You basically pick your hours, and you can change at the last minute without too much repercussion. She brings you goodies sometimes like CANDY and COOKIES and WHATEVER ELSE when she visits, and people: when she talks to you, she isn't shouting. My mother has a loud voice. You all have never heard her shout before. SO STOP SAYING THAT SHE'S SHOUTED AT YOU ALL LIKE A MILLION TIMES.

God-DAMN, just because I'm defending The Boss doesn't mean I'm speaking for The Man. I'm speaking as an employee who's trying to find some middle ground here.

I'm Home (Again)

I'm in Georgia once more, but instead of a recap post I'll put this up instead:


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I'll Postsecrets MY Way!

18 (sorta)secrets since I'm 18 (durr.)

1. I have $300 library book fines to pay.

2. I have received an "F" grade before, but I won't say at which point in my ongoing academic career.

3. I am mentally/emotionally incapable of being interested in more than 3 people at once.

4. Sometimes I wish I were white.

5. I don't take pictures of my face straight-on because I think I look hideous at that angle.

6. I'm an escapist. In fact, the world's best escapist.

7. I wouldn't mind if we got back together.

8. I wind up going through a juvenile, girly-girl crush period on all of my English teachers. Every. Single. One.

9. I will never meet my own standards (not okay with that.)

10. I will never meet my parents' standards (and yet I'm okay with that.)

11. I'm too selfish to be in a relationship.

12. I don't want to grow up.

13. I leave for home on Saturday, and I still haven't started packing yet.

14. I don't cry over anything unless it has to do with my family.

15. It's been 4 years since then, and I'm still healing from the emotional damage you so kindly dealt me. If we were to meet right now, I'm not sure I could restrain myself from killing you.

16. I am an attention-whore.

17. I'm horrible at taking other people's advice.

18. I don't care if I'm rich or dirt-poor in the future. I don't care if I'm married with fifteen kids or single with five cats. I don't care if I'm living my parents' dream job or my own dream or no one's at all.

I just want to be happy.

*Favorites*

Quotey

"Plain women know men more than beautiful ones do."
~ Katharine Hepburn

A Confession

When I Wasn't Looking

What happened to you since last May? I don't even know you anymore. Or maybe, this is who you've always been, only you had to conceal yourself for all of high school. I'll never know.

I haven't talked to you in weeks. When we met right before I left for Indonesia, the gap between our own discourse(s) couldn't be wider or disconcerting. Were we on the same plane of existence? And then I got it, and as soon as I got it, I became so...sad. My mind's version of you no longer matched what was in front of me, and had I been paying attention more over freshman year, I could have done something about it. Adapted. Accepted. Tolerated? And now it's too late.

I didn't get to say goodbye to the old you because I thought you'd always stick around. I was so stupid to assume that. I want to stay friends with you. I can't lose another close friend from high school. I hope you feel the same way.

But how can I continue to be friends with someone like you? This...asshole you've become.

http://sexytimes.wordpress.com/2009/07/

An excerpt:

"Here’s a tip for anyone who is not used to talking to writers: don’t ask them about their novel/thesis/dissertation/collected works of poetry unless you want to be subjected to three hours of them explaining, with a sufficient amount of self-effacing humour, (which is only really there to cover up the fact that they secretly consider themselves to be undiscovered prodigies), the conception, development, grammatical intricacies, emotional hardships, existential crises, highs, lows, and disturbingly frequent moments of utter insanity brought about by their project."

Read the rest on her blog, people.

Aliens Do Exist

I have this cousin named Callista. She is a month younger than I am and lives in Jakarta with her parents over the summer while going to Malaysia for the college months. We're roughly the same height, same weight. Both of us have straight, white teeth. The similarities stop there.

Over the summer, she helps her mom at the office from Monday to Saturday, 8am - 6pm. On Sundays, she goes to the temple to pray, do charity work, and whatnot. On her evenings, when she isn't doing her summer homework, she goes out for a night with her boyfriend, with whom she has not yet shared her first kiss. I think they go to the mall, maybe watch a movie or grab a bite to eat. They couple comes back around 9 or 10pm.

Her room is small, but tidy. The stuffed animals and blankets lie neatly arranged amongst her pillows while her books are stacked (alphabetically, I suspect) in rows underneath her little television set. On the wall facing the bed, 4 New Year's Resolutions are posted on a clean sheet of paper. They read: Get in shape (though she already is), Focus on my studies (though she already does), Get a job (aside from her other one), and Do my best (whatever that means.) Next to her bed is a fold-out wooden plank that she uses as a humble study desk (among other uses.)

She wears color-enhanced contacts so that the artificial amber in her eyes bring out the cute spread of freckles sprinkled across her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Other than that ornamental blemish, her skin is smooth and clear. Whenever she goes out, she is dressed in a carefully prepared outfit that both modestly covers her body and shows off just enough to turn heads. As she takes her even, dainty steps through the streets, her long, wavy hair curls over her shoulders, swaying and bouncing with a life of its own.

She can cook, clean, sew, mend, what have you. When she talks, little children obey the commands issued in that sweet, demure voice. She is a natural-born leader and a natural-born caretaker. She is not two-faced. She does not lie. She does not even masturbate. She has no trouble making friends because everyone likes her from the first moment she smiles and extends her hand. Not a single adult has ever complained about her. She never fights with her parents (really?), and my mom and dad think her lovely and well-behaved. She does what she is told and does not ask questions. She does not shout. But she cries most beautifully and emotionally, letting tears slide down her cheeks in polished rows. She is genuine, she is nice, and she wants to marry someone of her own ethnicity. She is indescribable.

A few nights ago, I was eating with her and a few other friends at the dinner table, scarfing down the last remnants of our meal because we were given only 25 minutes to eat. With 5 minutes to go, I had given up trying to have a healthy, well-paced meal days before and was now idly arranging individual rice grains to form the shape of a certain phallic symbol on my plate. Callista glanced at my unfinished food, wrinkled hernose just ever-so-slightly, and ventured, "You are going to eat your food, right?" I paused and looked up at her. "You should finish it," she added, cocking her head to the side like my mother and grandmother always do whenever they want me to do something. For a moment I stared, too surprised to respond, and at last said, "Sure, of course." She smiled, nodded her head in agreement, and got up to put her dishes away. As soon as she left, I grabbed a handful of rice, flung it over the table, and rose out of my chair to leave without saying a word.

Her name is Callista Roesli, and she gave me this absolutely appalled expression when I told her that the only thing I haven't done yet is sex. In literary terms, we are each other's foil. In laymen's terms, she is everything I will never be.

Sigh... @___@

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Back From The Dead

Okay so I just went to a six-day camp that aims at making teenagers into better people, i.e. make you feel utter remorse for ever being born into this world to make your parents suffer and buy shit for you. Tada. Oh yeah, and they teach us study skills (because I SOOO needed them right?) Anyway, besides the fact that they gave us thirty minutes to eat, 10 minutes to shower, and four hours of sleep every night (on average >_>), I still managed to make a good number of cool friends so my week wasn't entirely wasted.

And turns out a lot of Indonesian/Chinese/What-Have-You Asians do indeed like the Strange Whitewashed Asian from America. Go figure XD

So yes, after I got back from Bandung last night, I crashed for twelve hours (not kiiidddding) and woke up. And now I'm waiting for my pizza delivery. And I still have to wake up at 7 tomorrow for work. Sigh. Maybe I do want to go back to Super-Teen Camp (yes that is the name, NOT KIDDING XD) after all...at least I could socialize with people my age.

One more thing: I'm picking up Indonesian every day. I suspect that eventually I will go native.

What I Do in My Free Time

http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/161181

It is cute. Watch, people.

Recently I've Been Wondering...

I have this fantasy. Or, I did.

The summer after our freshmen year of college, the both of us decide to stay home and take a temporary job. You most likely work in some trendy young setting, and hopefully I'm not stuck waitressing again. Through various contacts with old high school buddies, you and I find out that we are but a half hour drive away from each other. A week later, you call me, and I answer with my nonchalant voice, the same way I’ve been taking your phone calls ever since I met you. Hey, how’s it going? Would you like to go out for lunch, you say. Oh, sure, I reply. I haven’t seen you for so long. Of course. Where do you want to meet? The Thai place? Harvest Moon? Or—dare I say it—the café inside Barnes and Noble?

In the end, the meeting place doesn’t matter. It is completely inconsequential. We meet somewhere at some time on some day, and I see you wearing something and you see me wearing something, and soon afterwards, we’re talking. We’re finally face-to-face, and we’re chatting about everything and nothing. I discover that you haven’t forgotten any of my high school crushes, and you’re pleased to hear that I still remember the time we threw Kraft’s cheese out a car window onto the windshield of some guy’s car. I feel great. I haven’t met with anyone from school except you, and I’m hoping you feel the same way. I keep thinking that it’s such a relief that you haven’t forgotten me.

In life’s subtle way of pushing the plot forward, we begin to meet for lunch once a week in Rome, at a different place each time. We look forward to it, partly because our jobs are so boring and partly because we always have something to talk about. I like this routine. I’m used to this routine.

Weeks pass. Months pass.

And just like that, we’re at our last lunch date. I’m slurping soup, and you’re holding a sandwich with a strange look on your face. I know what you’re thinking. Me too, me too. I feel the same. I say it first. It’s the last lunch date. It’s almost the end of the summer. Why don’t we meet this Friday night for movies? Your place, my place—it doesn’t matter. Stunned, you recover quickly and say, sure, let’s do that. What do you want to watch? I wave my hand. Oh, something funny. How about [insert title]? You’re always going on and on about that movie, and I never get around to watching it.

Fast forward to Friday night. We’re in the middle of the film, and I’m sitting in your living room, my glance alternating between the screen and the empty glass of beer in your hand. Mine is too. You gesture to my drink and ask if I want another from the fridge. Sure. You stand up and walk away, leaving me to my thoughts. I’m getting doubts. Maybe I shouldn’t have another. I can’t handle alcohol. I should definitely back off. My mind changed, I wander into the kitchen where I almost run into you and the fresh, unopened can of Bud Light. I notice two things. One: I’m not drunk as I think I am. Two: I had regular beer the first time, not Bud Light. I laugh and say, what? You think I can’t handle another regular? You grin and say yes. I make a face. You make one back. We start laughing for no good reason, and my eyes run all over you, taking in everything from your messy, sandy hair to your thin polo shirt that always, always, hangs on your shoulders so that you look anorexic. Which isn’t true. Is still not true?

To make sure, I kiss you. I don’t know where that reasoning came from, but there it is. And so now we’re kissing and you’re cupping my face, and I’m pulling and tugging your shirt because it’s so soft and loose and the both of us have no idea what happened to that can of beer. We don’t ask questions. We don’t say a word.

And it’s lovely. So lovely.

/fantasy

Story of My Life

"We're all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness- and call it love."

Thank you for the quote, dude.

Painkillers Are a Girl's Best Friend

Have you ever had a migraine? No, not the little twinge of pain you feel for all of two seconds. A proper, honest-to-god migraine. The kind you wake up in the morning with: a low, steady drumbeat in the back of your head that throbs when you make any sudden movements. It’s the migraine that plants itself right in the middle of your brain for the entire day. You never see it coming the night before (it isn’t known for giving out warning signs anyway.)

And when you do suddenly jerk your head to the side, the shockwaves that result are strong enough to be felt all the way down to the tips of your toes. You reel back, dizzy and disoriented, for several seconds (maybe even a minute) because the pounding refuses to stop even after you’ve brought your whole body to a standstill. Your breathing evens out and slows down as your fingers gingerly touch your forehead where an immense pressure pushes against your eyeballs.

A sigh of relief escapes you when at last the aftermath fades and you are left with that constant buh-bum rhythm in the background. And yes, today I had that sort of migraine.

Baliiiii

Oh nooooo I'm leaving Bali ;_; Alright alright it's okay I guess >__> I've had my fun, and now it's time to find my...job. URGH. This may be the shortest post on my blog that I've made so far O_o I have nothing else to say other than: I'm considering shaving my head. Yes, it's that hot here.

Later.

Engrish in Indonesia (INSIDE JOKES HURRAH)

1. Doonkin' Donuts

2. Surpreese

3. Chuchumberrrs

4. Sui Dim Gai Au!

5. Again?!

~~

The food here is wonderful, and I'm getting darker by the day. YESSSSSS.

runningrunningrunning

I will now announce that starting from today my postage will be very erratic seeing as how I will not have steady access to the interwebs for the next two months. Urgh. Anyway, expect maybe one post a week from me (and that's if I'm lucky.) In any case, I am sticky, sweaty, tired, and dirty from the heat and humidity in Indonesia. And I still have not met anyone interesting. However, I noticed when I got back to the hotel tonight that my skin is slightly darker. Huzzah, I am slowly but surely tanning.

Signing out, people. I haven't slept in over 48 hours. Stupid plane rides @____@

Street Lights

I'm leaving at 3 in the morning for the airport, where I will then spend approximately 24 collective hours in some plane or other traveling to Indonesia. Hurray. Then I will island hop from city to exotic locale to city again for about two weeks, finally settling down in Jakarta on June 12-13. Hurrah. After that, if I get the job at the largest commercial bank in Indonesia (Bank Danamon), I will work without pay until July 20 or so, then fly back on the 25th. So I will be home on July 28 (maybe?!). With...my brother in tow. And maybe my grandma. Which would mean I'd be flying an international flight while trying to ferret my relatives across and not getting hopelessly lost AT THE SAME TIME. Party time.

So...I'll be home from then on until Saturday, Sept 5.

~~

Did I mention that I still haven't turned in something for school? Yeah...need to get on that : |

~~

STREET LIGHTS BY KANYE WEST IS STUCK IN MY HEAD. GET IT OUT NOW.

This is Why I Haven't Been Posting

This is a Blog About Nothing

So yeah...it's been a week since I've arrived home.

And I'm bored out of my fucking mind.

Granted, I only have five days left before I fly for Indonesia and stay there for two months. But still. It's another five days of: working, eating, rewatching Grey's Anatomy on my laptop, refreshing Facebook over 9000 times, trying not to inflict too much bodily harm on my brother, and...thinking about Another Guy Who Has Yet Again Screwed Me Over. (Go Esa.) Anyway, I suppose that after a few more weeks, I could have gotten used to it (maybe even enjoy it), but as of right now, I'm. Still. Bored.

Also, I'm miffed. Dammit, I want another boytoy : /

Here It Goes Again

Once again, I've lost another one. Oh goody. You'd think by now the ridiculous 8-person streak I've been pulling along would have SNAPPED IN HALF BUT NOOOOOO. I think I have this sign on my forehead, visible to everyone but me, that says: I'm reasonably attractive. If you like me and know that I'm interested too, then you should make out with me and immediately avoid me like the swine flu afterward or pull an awkwardly crafted excuse out of your ass for why you no longer wish to see me. Because apparently, I LOVE that.

To all the potential men in my life: Grow a pair.

To all the potential women in my life: Come on in.

~~

Man, fuck this shit.

The End of an Era

Alright, first things first:

I still have a ten-page paper to do before my 1:00PM flight later today. Right. I should definitely get on that after this post. Anyway, now I can get to the real meat of this post: introspection and reflection!!! (and whatever "-tion" word you can think of.)

~~

One class grade for the spring semester is going to suck EPICALLY. I can only imagine how my parents will punish me (i.e. lecture me to death) this time around after fucking up AGAIN >___> Luckily, we will be in Indonesia by the time final grades are released into the Internet jungle. And I think I'm freaking out about grades too much. Sigh, again. Stop that @__@

So yes, this school year has gone by freakishly fast. Initially, it seemed to drag on during September/October, but now I find myself wishing to stay here for a few more days. Maybe a week. Or, I could just fly all my friends to Georgia, tadaaaa! XD No really, Middlebury had its FAIL moments, but for the most part, I truly did enjoy it here. I even managed to complete one goal of mine that was on a List of Things to Do in Middlebury: "discover" myself. Eww, sounds so cheesy, but that's exactly what happened. I think I know myself a lot better, and I'm also much more comfortable in my own skin. Granted, I'm still awkward as shit, but I like to think that it's a very endearing sort of awkwardness.

And now on to more random items:

- wtffff I just watched Grey's Anatomy season finale and son, that was some BULLLSHIIIT like WHAAAT!?!? George is not allowed to die like that. Nope, he just isn't v_v But hurray for the Owen/Cristina HOTNESS YEEEHH!!!

- I had a very crazy dream last night that involved a nail going through my hand, immediate first aid care, a car chase, a sketchy-looking school building, and The One Guy Who Refuses to Be Purged From My Thoughts Goddammit >__> Go away, you.

- I keep looking at your pictures on Facebook. Why do I keep looking at your pictures on Facebook? I am not hooking up with you this summer. Actually, NEVERRRR. NEVERRRRR. Stop looking at the pictures on Facebook, Esa! It's bad news, bad news!

~~

I MISS EVERYONE AT HOME!!! BUT I'LL MISS EVERYONE AT MIDDLEBURY!! AAHHHH!!! LOOK OUT, PEOPLE, ESA IS RETURNING IN LESS THAN 24 HOURS.

An Airing Out of Grievances

(Warning: I reveal some very personal information about myself. Read with caution.)


Alright, it's been building up over a ninth-month period, and I can't take it anymore. Sorry, roommate, I have to do this:

- What is with the guitar playing? You practice the same songs over and over and OVER and you never get better. Come on, can't you practice something new? I'm sick of hearing Taylor Swift songs, especially the first ten seconds of "White Horse."

- Stop singing. Or if you must, don't do it while I'm in the room. Please. For the love of God, seriously. I remember you telling me that you were in your high school choir, and I remember going, "Oh, really? You don't look like you can." And guess what? I'M RIGHT. SO VERY VERY RIGHT. You can't sing. SO STOP SINGING.

- Why can't you sleep at normal hours? You know, around midnight or one. I'm the always the roommie who goes to bed at midnight and has to ask you to turn down the volume of whatever reality show you're watching that week and then I climb in bed and then I try to wait for you to go to sleep so I can GET MYSELF OFF. And then--and then--YOU NEVER GO TO BED. ARE YOU AN INSOMNIAC? Come on, stupid girl! I have needs and I can't do it with you AWAKE. Obviously, I can't do it during the day because I have class and whatnot so the only solution is nighttime. And you totally ruin it for me. Thanks *ever* so much.

- And what's with your Indian friend always barging into the room looking for you hmm? WITHOUT KNOCKING? One time, she came in while I was naked. Yep, completely starkers. Wonderful, huh? I already mentioned this to you, and I bet you didn't tell her. Right. I LOATHE YOUR FRIEND. I've put up with her rude barge-ins AAALLL year long, and I swear to all that is good and holy, if she comes in this last week it won't matter if I'm in my undies or not. Shit will go down.

- Finally finally FINALLY, I think you may have some kind of disorder. You know, like an inability or handicap. Would you like to know why I think this? I will tell you: because every day when I open the door to my room, I must go through a maze of misplaced shoes, articles of clothing, and make-up apparatus in order to reach my desk (or my book shelf.) All of which do not belong to me. Sometimes throughout the year, I wonder if it bothered you. All that shit on your side of the room spilling onto my side. But I guess not because you've allowed your refuse to fester and multiply like bacteria, insidiously infecting my things. Sigh...

WHY THE FUCK CAN'T YOU CLEAN YOUR GODDAMN ROOM? AT LEAST THROW AWAY YOUR FOOD STUFF IN THE GARBAGE CANS OUTSIDE THE ROOM SO I DON'T HAVE TO RUN INTO A WALL OF STENCHY MOLDY FOOD WAFTING FROM YOUR SIDE OF THE ROOM. I'M SO EMBARRASSED WHEN MY FRIENDS VISIT, DO YOU KNOW THAT? WUOFHSLDBLSJBDLJQW THANK GOD I'M GETTING A SINGLE NEXT YEAR.

/long-anticipated rant

If You Haven't Noticed...

Lately, my posts have been very...short. Brief. Basically lists of shit I have to do XD This is the last week, after all. Exams, Packing, Saying Goodbyes--not much else is on my mind. Of course, there's my anxiety about going home. Sigh: back to rules. But good food. back to working. But nice room that is ALL MINE. back to insufferable Georgia heat. But there's always MY POOL. So you see, I'm rather conflicted. I still can't decide if going back home is a good or bad thing.

Oh hurrah, I have parent-child clashes to look forward to. I know it will happen. How can it not? But...there's always something (or someone) to occupy my time. Oh boy >___> Don't say it, Esa. <-- br="" don="" i="" t="" won="" worry="">
And then there's the whole thing with my parents shipping me off to Indonesia for two months. Yeah, that. Not too pleased. All of June and most of July? HOW WILL I SURVIVE WITHOUT INTERNET? AND FRIENDS? AND HOT FRIES? KDSBGKDHBVKBGKEWHBG--

*slaps self* Right, now I'm just rambling. When I should be studying for 2 more exams. And typing up a resume. And working on The Modern China Paper That Simply Refuses To Die. And. And. And. And.

@___________________________________@ I need some chill pills.

Six Days, Seven Nights...wait what?

1. Final Short Story

2. French Exam

3. Italian Renaissance Art Exam

4. Modern China Exam

5. Send Resume to Relative in Indonesia

6. Clean Room

7. Pack Stuff

8. Unloft my Bed O_O

9. Move Shit to Storage Room next Friday

10. a certain paper that is now due by tuesday, may 19th (ssh)

~~

I want to go home and I don't want to go home. Is that a bad thing?

Brown-Nosing is Not a Competitive Sport

Alright, look.

When I'm in a lecture class, I like to listen to the professor talk. You know, because it's a lecture class. The professor lectures. I take notes. Then everything is hunky-dory. If you, the generic college student, want to ask a question, go right ahead. Sometimes I want to ask questions too (although I never ask them >_>). But please please PLEASE don't carry a discussion with the professor. I don't want to hear about your extensive knowledge of Roman antiquity or ancient Greek literature. I don't want to hear your nasally, scratchy voice puncture a blissful silence of note-taking every five minutes.

SHUT UUUUUPPPP T_____________T

The Doctor Game

Symptoms:

- crawling feeling on the skin
- constant goosebumps
- overall restlessness
- hyper-awareness of physical contact
- breathless sensations

Diagnose me, House! (Actually, don't. I know already) >_______________>

Countdown to Meltdown

1. 10 pg Paper

2. Part 3 and 4 of short story along with nice cover letter (don't forget postage!!)

3. 3 self-scheduled exams I've yet to study for

4. French skit

5. French Cultural Activity

Oh yeah, I still have to prepare to move out. You know, hectic last-minute stuff. Right. Someone shoot me. I have roughly two weeks to do ALL THIS, and at the same time I still want to go to a few more parties and performances and hang out with my friends and...

Shut up, Esa T_______T

Everyone is a Walking Personal Ad

Okay first things first: I finished one paper roughly ten minutes ago. Good job. Now for my other one. >_____> And my short story too. But that's okay. My short story shouldn't be too hard right? Riiiigghhht @_______@

~~~~

To the actual topic at hand:

Recently I have found myself taking interest to several students on campus, both guy and girl. Sounds normal so far. NOT. I realized waaaay back in the semester how very lacking Middlebury is in the aesthetically appealing department. Student-wise, that is. Yep, there are maybe 5 authentic 'hot' people in this college. Sad. And because of this ugly fact, many students whose standards back at home would have been sky-high have now been reduced to messing around with those of the sub-par level (at best.) Unfortunately, I am not excluded from this trend. I wish I were kidding.

So there it is--the ugly truth! Suddenly, I'm throwing myself at guys I would have laughed at back in Georgia! People at whom I would have not even given a second glance are now receiving my complete attention! The situation has grown desperate. Although come May 16 I will once again return to the prison that is my home, at least I can be rest assured that whoever I may have sexytime with will be up to my usual standards. Sigh. And to think, I was so hopeful on my first day of college...

Well, can't say I'm surprised though. What's another expectation brutally shot down?

Epic Fail

I fail at life. I will never get it right. Yep. I have accepted this sad truth. Right then: I'm going to pull an all-nighter (or something close to it) to write a five-pager for a class that is due Friday before 5:00pm. Then I'm going to watch my grade in another class go down in flames. Okay. Even if I send an email pleading him to salvage whatever's left of it. And then I'm going to spend my weekend doing other various homework activities along with non-homework activities that do not include partying of any kind. I'm a good girl in that respect.

Come Monday, I will throw myself into finishing my story. Sounds like a plan. I think.

Oh wait, now I remember. What about my other paper? You know, the one that was due ages ago? Aah, so that's why I labeled this post Epic Fail.

My parents are going to kick my ass in June. Again. After I promised them I wouldn't fuck up this semester.

Maybe I should just transfer to Emory like they've been encouraging me to this whole school year.

Eisley Sings it Best

I am tired from last night. Why, you ask? Well, I went to a birthday party in Forrest. Then I went to a party in Atwater Suites. Then I stayed up until 4:30 in the morning and slept 'til 10:00am. That's less than 6 hours of sleep. I am also hungover. And I have laundry. And a paper that was due Thursday that I haven't even started yet. So go me.

Oh.

And if that were not enough on my plate, I am also very, very confused. But I shouldn't dwell too much on it. Thinking too much about it can be detrimental to my health. Last night did not happen (even though I kinda wanted it to). Last night was an anomaly. Last night was unexpected. Last night...was confusing. Now I wish last night never occurred at all.


I wasn't prepared.
~ Eisley

I Am Whiny (So Sue Me)

I need to get this off of my chest.

~~

BACK THE FUCK OFF AND JUST LET ME BE MY OWN PERSON. STOP TRYING TO PLAN OUT THE REST OF MY LIFE. STOP FORCING YOUR "SUGGESTIONS" ON ME. STOP CLUCKING WITH BARELY CONCEALED DISAPPROVAL EVERY TIME I TELL YOU GUYS WHAT MY ACADEMIC INTERESTS ARE OR WHAT CLASSES I'M TAKING FOR THE SEMESTER. STOP BREATHING DOWN MY BACK, CALLING ME EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY TO INTERROGATE ME ON WHAT I DID, WHAT I ATE, BLAH BLAH DIDDY BLAH BLAH. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT TO DO AFTER I GRADUATE, BUT THAT DOESN'T GIVE YOU TWO THE RIGHT TO SHOVE ME TOWARDS LAW SCHOOL. JUST BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT RIGHT NOW DOES NOT MEAN I WANT TO GO TO LAW SCHOOL, FAR FROM IT. WHAT WORKS FOR YOU TWO MAY NOT NECESSARILY WORK FOR ME. I MAY BE YOUR CHILD, BUT I AM NOT YOUR CARBON COPY. I HAVE DIFFERENT SOCIO-POLITICAL VIEWS FROM YOU, SO WHAT? I LIKE HISTORY AND ENGLISH, SO WHAT? I DON'T LIKE TO TEACH OR BE A LAWYER, SO WHAT? YOU TWO ARE NOT THE ONES GOING TO MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE. I AM. YOU TWO DON'T HAVE THE ABILITY TO LIVE MY LIFE FOR ME SO JUST TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND FOR ONCE--JUST ONCE--HAVE SOME FUCKING FAITH IN ME. CAN YOU GIVE ME AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT OF CREDIT? I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING. I GOT THIS FAR, HAVEN'T I? PLEASE GIVE ME A CHANCE TO SHOW YOU TWO WHAT I CAN DO WITHOUT YOUR "HELP," AND YOUR INCREASINGLY FREQUENT PHONE CALLS AKA SPANISH INQUISITION SESSIONS.

Please. You guys are suffocating me, and we're not even in the same states. Every phone call from you two feels like Chinese water torture, and that's not how I want to react whenever I see your names on caller ID. I love you guys, but I'm sick of this. Just...give me some space.

Please.

Why I Can't Stand Twitter

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Middlebury: Exposed

Dear Prospective Student Who May Read My Blog From Time to Time,

If you have been accepted to the prestigious Middlebury College, small private liberal arts school extraordinaire, then I extend my heartiest congratulations to you. Hurrah. Now that Acception/Rejection month is nearly over, you must be rather conflicted about your choices. Which school should you spend four years of your young life in? Decisions, decisions. Believe me, it was difficult for me too last year. I had to choose between Emory and Middlebury, two very different post-secondary institutions, each with their own pros and cons. In the end, Middlebury won out, and here I am, firmly entrenched in a swivel chair in front of a computer in the college's Main Library, typing this letter to You.

You see, I do not wish for You, Prospective Student, to undergo the same agonizing process that I had to endure. I want to make your decision-making easy and without any second doubts. Therefore, I will now tell you an excerpt of my life here at Middlebury--just a chapter out of my daily life as a Middkid, nothing more--to give you some sense of what you may or may not encounter in rural Vermont. And...here I go:

Today I wake up around 8:30 because my alarm sucks, so I wind up being 5 minutes late to French class. As my dear professor rambles about "La Cigale et La Fourmi," I sit there in my little corner of the classroom, scribbling in my planner for this week's chores, the French part of my mind still in a comatose state. We are let out ten minutes late, as usual, and I have to sprint to the dining hall in order to scrape up whatever's left of this morning's breakfast. I have waterless oatmeal that is congealed in a lovely, unidentifiable shape, which I eat with frozen peaches that I must stab at with a fork.

On my way back to my room, I take a detour from my usual route due to the 9000 construction vehicles and yellow tape parked in the middle of the road in front of Proctor Hall--whose renovation has been ongoing since September. I open the door of my room to be greeted by the sickly sweet n' salty odor of my roommate's side of the dorm, a strange combination of make-up pigments/powders, week-old ramen noodle fermenting in her trashcan, and the damp pile of clothes sitting at the foot of her bed. (And I can't decide whether or not the clothes are wet because they have just been popped out of the laundry machine or for some other unknown reason.) I vegetate at my desk for roughly two hours before changing my books and heading for the door, taking care not to trip over one of my roommate's 9000 shoes/towels/books/other shit that litter the floor of the room in perhaps one of her misguided efforts to decorate my side. In any case, I had an unfortunate incident last night with a particularly vicious purple ballet flat so I tread carefully.

My other class drags by blissfully, and before I know it, I am at one of the library's computers, attempting to print something. When I walk over to the printing station on the main floor, I discover that it has a paper jam. No matter. I send my document to be printed at the third floor. I walk over there. That printer has run out of ink. Again, no matter. I send said document to the first floor. I walk over there. It has been out of order for a week so I have no idea what is wrong with that printer. Alright one more printer at the basement level. I walk down into the dungeons to the printing station there, and apparently, that printer is on its period and has not had its Advil yet so it really cannot be bothered to print any damn papers for this petite Chinese girl who is sweaty and out of breath from having run up and down four flights of stairs. Really, the nerve of me. And despite the funny habitual coincidence that every time I want to print something off at the library, all the printers are broken, I shrug and think "Oh they'll probably work tomorrow. I should try again then."

Dinnertime. Ross dining hall has turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and bread stuffing. My favorites. And do you know why they are my favorites? Because Ross serves this faux Thanksiging cuisine at least three times a week, besides the usual fare of cheeseburgers and london broil. I have had no other type of food since coming here, and I see no reason in introducing me to culturally diverse dishes now. After I eat dinner, I walk back to my dorm, where I then make inane small talk with my floormates, sweet, well-meaning girls who enjoy "the outdoors, reading, and hanging out with friends." Then I retreat into my room, where I consume an entire bag of Lays' Barbecue Chips in one sitting while refreshing Facebook over 9000 times.

Time flies by, and it is a half-hour til midnight. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and run to the bathroom, where I find that all of the sinks have been taken by girls whose nightly activities include (but are obviously not limited to): brushing teeth, flossing, face masks, and scrubbing your face with various lotions/ointments/exfoliation liquids/nightingale poop. Fifteen minutes later, I at last have an empty sink where I then spend approximately three minutes washing up for bed. And as I lay in my squeaky creaky springy bed, I wonder if I have to wake up to the dulcet melody of power drills going off directly below my room like I did last week.

/Day in Middlebury

Well, Prospective Student, I hope that this letter of mine will help you in your decision-making process this month. I know I would have benefited greatly had someone sent me a message like this last April.

Good luck!

I Spy

Ever since a friend told me about one of her favorite pastimes, I've found myself doing the exact same thing. It's pretty awesome. Example:

I arrive slightly out of breath at the Munroe computer lab. My eyes do an automatic scan of the room for the nearest available computer. As they rove, I catch other unnecessary details, such as the scuffing on one girl's rainboots (damn she really needs to wash them), the greasy locks of hair spilling over another girl's headband (again damn, she really needs to wash that), and so on and so forth. Just when I think that's all there is to see and I walk towards a computer, I spot a young man sitting in front of his screen, hunched over, hood covering his eyes, carefully rummaging the contents of his left nostril with his index finger. When he's finished, he carelessly rubs the offending appendage against his jeans and resumes typing. Using the same hand.

Oh how I love college. Thanks to you, Mystery Nose-Picking Boy, that image will linger in my head for the rest of the day. Hah. You thought no one saw, did you? Well I did.

I'm a Cold Bitch?

Shit, it's happening again. I'm getting bored. Not because I have nothing to do, no. I'm getting bored of someone else again. Alright alright I'll blurt it out, never mind how cruel it looks on e-paper: I am bored of my boy toy already. Hasn't even been a full two weeks and already I want to ignore his texts and hope he doesn't try anything when I come back home for the summer. Argh, I knew this would happen.

Why? Why do I do this? Is it because I suspect HE may be the one getting attached? Is it because I know too much about him now, thus rendering him uninteresting and normal? Is it because he's all the way in Georgia, and I'm all the way in Vermont? Is it because I'm so burdened with work now I can't be bothered with shit at home? Is it because I never even wanted him in the first place and that I simply received his advances in order to boost my cripplingly low self-esteem??? (Don't answer these questions. Please. I already know the answers.)

In any case, this sucks. I must get to the bottom of it. So once again, I discover another part of myself in college.

April Fools -- Who, Me?

It's been exactly one year since I received my acceptance letter to Middlebury. My mom called me while I was volunteering at a shelter, and at first she wouldn't tell me which school the letter was from. She told me the letter was small and innocuous, and I had sighed, already assuming it was yet another rejection--another pretend sincere apology letter to add to my then-growing collection. So I was pleasantly surprised when she screeched over the phone that the letter was from Middlebury, and that I had been accepted, and suddenly my entire high school career actually made sense. Of course, that feeling didn't last for long.

And now look at me. I'm in Middlebury, just like I wanted, despite the increasing financial burden that this school has placed on my parents. This was what I wanted. This is what I want, right? And will this continue to be what I want? I can't say. Sometimes I'm so happy I came here, and sometimes I just want to quit school and become a bum or work at Waffle House (I really do like their hats.) Those moments are fleeting though, so I shouldn't worry too much.

Today's April Fool's Day. No one's played a prank on me yet, but I thought my mother was a year ago. And now that I'm looking back on it, I wonder: was I the fool for coming here? For thinking that college would give me a complete makeover and solve all my problems? For being so sure that I would "find myself" here? In Vermont?

The answer of course is yes. You wouldn't find a bigger fool on campus than me right now.

The Perfect Storm

Things I Must Do in the Month of April:

1. 5 page term paper for Italian Renaissance Art

2. 10 page term paper for History of Modern China

3. Part 2 of short story for Writing Fiction (length subject to change)

And of course, the list does not include activities such as attending French language tables twice a month, finding a job (still?!), finding scholarships (still @_@), an exam for Italian Renaissance Art, 2 cultural activities for French, and a French test.

Can I please go back home? NOW?

An Itch I Can't Scratch

Warning: The following post contains material not suitable for younger viewers. If I were to assign this post a film rating, it would be a hard R. Perhaps X if I decide to be really frank.

That is all.

~~

You make me feel hot. Like the surface of the sun hot. Like Brokeback Mountain hot. Like make-up sex hot. You let me boss you around and tell you where to touch, how to touch, and for how long. You make me want to give back as you much you do, which NEVER happens with any of my encounters. I'm normally very selfish (or just plain uninterested), but there's something about the way you bite me...

And pull my hair. And grip my hips. And blow into my ear. How you tell me that you've never been with a non-white girl before, let alone a college student. How you growl when I yank your hand away from my pants zipper (No, never that. I don't care how good you are.) And how we casually greet each other at work, the others blissfully unaware of our late night rendezvous.

You piss me off so badly. You're perverted and vulgar, and use the n-word liberally (even though you try to excuse it with a feeble "I've got black friends so it's okay." Are you kidding me? It's never okay.) You bait me until you have me near-shouting at you and wringing my hands in frustration. You're cocky and arrogant with a smirk to match, and just when I think you've reached maximum level of macho chauvinistic pig offensiveness, you always manage to exceed expectations.

So I piss you off. I don't tell you what I'm thinking, or repeat what I mumbled under my breath. I try to trip you while you're walking with a full tray of drinks. I call you out on your bullshit. I make fun of your truck. And I tease you mercilessly. All of these things aren't much, but when I do 'em, I'm in full Bitch Mode (which, incidentally, turns you on.)

I can feel you look at me sometimes. Your eyes seem to peel my apron off, pull up my uniform shirt, slide underneath the underwire of my bra. You never stare for more than a couple of seconds though. I don't let you see me shiver.

You make the possibility of me being a lesbian completely absurd.

Exhilarating. Absolutely unreal. Definitely Something New.

So it's too bad I'm going back to school in a few days. I could have had more fun.

I could have written more posts like this.

Homewrecker: Asian Edition

I admit it: I haven't been the most Goody-Goody Two Shoes I can possibly be. I mean, I've partied. Drank. Smoked. You know, College Student Stuff. But what happened the night before...was an entirely brand new level of Badness. Hell, I surprised myself. I really think I did not have it in me.

SHIT.

Oh well. It happened. In a car. At midnight. On the House of China II parking lot located across a well-lit Huddle House from which people could file out, turn around, and spot two silly little adolescents sucking face in an innocent-looking Chrysler.

SHIIIIIIIIIIIT.

I'm not the one at fault @_@ He should be the one at fault. He's the one with "prior commitments," not me. NOT ME. NOT MEEEEEE. Also, I'm dwelling on this too much. Why am I dwelling on this so much? It wasn't awkward the next day. We didn't do anything *too* out of bounds. I should just forget this whole thing ever occurred. Right?

HE WORKS FOR MY MOTHER O______________O

Now I remember why I'm freaking out. Shitty McShit. SHIT. And ASS.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I turn into Ugly Chinese Girl when I go home. At college, I'm hot. In Georgia, I'm really really not. This does not make sense. White redneck males in rural Georgia don't go for liberal freewheeling Asian girls like me. Can somebody explain this to me?!?!?!?!

Pretty please?

Laundry Cling

I'm really tired. And I'm also really sorry. I'm sorry for always bothering you, even though you say that you'd tell me to go away if that were really the case. You haven't yet, but I'm waiting for it. I know I can be paranoid and sensitive and constantly in need of reassurance, but sometimes I can be very endearing...I think. I'm just scared that you don't consider me your "best"/"closest" friend here or something similar to those labels because if you didn't, then my only best friend would be all the way in Georgia. And then I'd be really lonely in college.

Truth is, I just want to feel needed. I just want someone to need me as much as I need them. I'm sure there's a better word than "need," but I've been running on 3 hours of sleep all day so screw you dudes.

I don't think it's hard to understand that I don't want to be "that expendable, forgettable friend."

(Non)sense

A list of buildings in Middlebury College that I will never, EVER, be able to navigate through:

1. Freeman International Center (Around and around it goes...)

2. The Ross Complex (It's riot-proof and also gets you lost in 2 seconds! ^_^)

3. Gifford Hall (Why the hell are there so many random nooks and crannies!?)

4. Center for the Arts (All that random wasted space!)

5. Coffrin Hall (I don't even know where to begin for this one @_@)

DePantsing, or the Equivalent of That

I feel like I have just poured most of my Deep Dark Secrets and Shames and Insecurities to you over a 7 month period only to have them aired out in public and used against me in one of the worst ways imaginable.

Oh wait. I feel that way because that is what has just happened to me.

My bad. Really, my bad.

Is This It?

Please don't think that I'm jealous of you, that I don't want you to be happy. Because I do. So this thing, my all-telling silence at your experience, isn't your fault. It's completely mine. I don't particularly want him, but I want what you're feeling right now. I want to feel thrilled, intrigued, excited. I want be into someone too. I just want to feel. I've been kidding myself since I got here in September. I've been trying to fool myself since I got here in September. After all those weekend outings, after all the parties and the booze and the weed and the loud thumping humping music that blasts my eardrums to pieces--

I go back to my room, brush my teeth, and sit on the computer for a couple of hours before going to bed. It's as if I never went out. I don't squeal over that One Person whom I danced with most of the time or shriek over the phone to my friends, telling them about The Hot Guy I made out with. I don't think about these things at night. Oh, I'll tell you in the morning at Ross, embellishing a few details here and there, widening my eyes and clutching my face like I'm recounting the Juiciest Story you'll ever hear, EVER, but let it be known that I'm lying. Don't believe me when I say shit like:

"It felt sooo good."

"I hope I see him again."

"Do you think he remembers me?"

"It was so great, with his hands all over my ass and my hands running through his hair and blah diddy blah blah blah."

I'm lying through my teeth. It doesn't feel good. It feels mechanical, medical, like I'm performing a procedure. Move hips to the right. Do a little dip. Tilt my head towards his. Let him kiss me. Let his tongue probe around the inside of my mouth. Hold breath as he does so. Attempt non-tongue kissing on my part. Realize he only wants tongue. Pull face away. Rock hips some more. Repeat cycle.

You must think what an idiot I am by now. You are not incorrect in your assessment. I am an idiot. I am an idiot who doesn't want to acknowledge what might be the problem here and what might be the most perfect solution in the world for me. But I'll say it out loud, if only to jar myself into realization:

I might be a lesbian.

I mean, I'm already bisexual so what's another step to the left? I wouldn't act much differently from how I am right now. Except, of course, that I'd try to dance with girls. Right. And my family would disown me. They don't even know about my current swinging ways. So yeah, I'm a coward. I don't want to think about this small, very real possibility that I might exclusively prefer girls because then that would mean the end of Me and My Family and My Life. I'm scared to death. I don't want that.

Th more I think about it, the angrier I get. I rage at myself. Why can't I just pick a gender (or two) and be done with it? Why can't I seem to decide what I like and what I don't like? Why don't I like kissing these people? Why don't I like them to touch me? Obviously, the solution to this dilemma is to simply not go to these hook-up events or go to them and dance by myself the whole time. But guess WHAT? I start complaining. I start whining that I'm not attractive or no one likes an awkward Asian girl leaning against a wall of the Bunker. I feel unwanted and nasty. And then someone grabs my hand for a dance. You know what happens next.

I don't hate very often (actually rarely), but when I do, I mean it whole-heartedly. I hate myself in these moments. I hate my indecisiveness, my swaying, my inability to figure out what the fuck do I actually want. I mentally beat myself up over and over until I suppress these murderous thoughts and prepare myself for another weekend.

And this self-hate, like so many other things, only gets deeper and uglier.

Sometimes I wake up to completely uneventful mornings. I go to class, eat lunch, go to class, do homework, eat dinner, sit in front of the computer, go to bed. I have scenes with my friends in between my robotic actions in which I laugh and all is good. And then there are days when I have too much homework, or I haven't seen anyone in a while, or I am just tired. My thoughts wander and go wild then. I get so tired, you know, and I get so frustrated with my life in Academia that I wonder why I'm here. Not here in Middlebury. Just here in school, studying. For what? To get a job? And then what? To make money? Then marry and have kids and grow old and die? That's it?

It only gets worse. I think about wanting to go home, but remember that I would go to work and take care of my little brother and other sisterly activities. Then I don't want to go home, but neither do I want to stay in school. So where can I go? My mind wants out, but there is no place I can retreat to. Not even the weekends help stimulate me. I grow bored of them, to be honest. What's the point of hooking up with someone at a party? What's the point of finding out my sexuality for sure? What's the point of all of this? Someone please get me out of here. I wish I could detach myself and float away. I might not even come back. Maybe there's something more interesting Out There than what I've been forced to live through since my conception.

I think about killing myself again, but for different reasons this time.

This isn't a cry for attention, and neither is it for revenge. In stupid terms, I contemplate it because I'm bored. Disillusioned. Tired. That's the perfect word. Tired. I'm tired of going to school and going home and thinking about my future and maintaining friendships and thinking about stupid retarded romance crap that gets me abso-fucking-lutely nowhere. There's nothing interesting or exciting about life. All of it feels so automatic and predictable. I don't feel unique; I don't feel like an individual. What do these problems matter once I'm old and feeble and dying? Nothing. In the end, I'm going to die anyway, and I probably won't even remember the good times/bad times. So what's wrong with wanting to escape now? I can cut the mind-numbing process called Life in half and be done with it. I won't have to play Neopets. I won't have to refresh Facebook a million times. I won't have to hide within myself when I'm out on Friday/Saturday nights. And I won't have to wake up to uneventful mornings anymore.

It's the only thing I know that I want. So can you blame me? Seriously, can you?