[insert intelligence here]

the magic

2012-02-14T10:56:00.000-08:00

Normally, this is where I would apologize for my hiatus and make some promise to write more frequently in the future. I think it would be better for all of us if I just skipped that part and moved on.

It was in Disneyland, of all places, that I discovered a flaw so fundamental in my personality that I was shocked that I had never noticed it before. And before you ask, yes, the setting was crucial to this discovery. It was in the happiest place on earth that I discovered why it is so difficult for me to be happy.

As my friends and I were on various rides, I found myself doing what I always do- craning my neck to see their reactions to things as they were completely engrossed in each moment. Then I wondered, why wasn’t I as focused as they were? Why wasn’t I drawn in? Was it because I wasn’t as interested, or because I wouldn’t let myself be interested?

Then I had a sinking realization. Since they were fully enjoying what they were doing, they weren’t doing something that I’ve been doing on rides for as long as I can remember: actively looking for the mechanics behind the ride, the edges where the fantasy and reality failed to overlap and revealed itself to me. Even in the darkness of Space Mountain, I locked my eyes on the tracks and the equipment, not the (fake) starry sky around me. I couldn’t suspend disbelief for even a second.

Not even in Disneyland, not even on a roller coaster, not even in the happiest of company, could I let my analytical mind rest. No, I was constantly searching for any mistakes, anything that could break the spell intended for me.

I’m not sure it’s necessary to explain how this tendency of mine applies to the rest of my life, for it’s probably quite obvious to you now. And that is why I am difficult.

And no, the irony that today is Valentine’s Day has not escaped me.

on saying goodbye

2011-12-22T03:45:00.000-08:00

The following is my final blog post for my Off-Campus Study blog. I'm kind of using it as a coping mechanism for now, at least until I can figure out how else to express myself. Being home is so weird.

The task of writing this final post has been looming over me for the past week, but the guilt that I have generated from not doing it has far surpassed my unwillingness to begin, so here I am. At 2 in the morning.

The thing is, it still doesn’t feel real. And by it, I mean both my experience in Stockholm and attempting to resume my life at home. I still can’t fully process just how lucky I am to have lived in such an incredible city. However trite it may sound, Stockholm will forever hold a little piece of my heart. Cheesy and simple, I know, but the truth isn’t always groundbreaking and dramatic. It can be found in the little things, like walking through Gamla Stan’s Julmarknad on Sankta Lucia, glögg in gloved hand. Or laughing as the Swedish children on the Tunnelbana demand that their mothers pay attention as they pull faces and struggle to stay standing. Or even sitting in a Swedish apartment, reading by candlelight.

It’s funny to look back at the beginning of last semester and think about where I stood. Coming in, I was reminded of former experiences I had had as a child, going to sleepaway camp or something similar. I thought that I would be forever changed upon coming home, unable to readjust to my former life. But I always did.

So I lost hope in becoming forever changed, and accepted the fact that, while certain events have an impact on my life, there is no singular event that could completely shake up my perspective. As a result, I became cynical, jaded. I didn’t think it was possible to make lifelong friends in such a temporary situation, nor did I ever want to refer to something like this as the best time of my life. It just wasn’t realistic to think that one small period in my life, riddled with dramatic events, could fundamentally change me as a person.

In a way, I was right.

Yes, the major events are the ones that are the most documented. But the minutiae of daily life in Sweden are the ones that I am going to miss the most. The change has been gradual, barely perceptible. Friendships were formed organically and developed over time. I warmed up to my surroundings and took the time to appreciate them.

The ways I’ve changed are more sustainable. They didn’t have the explosive intensity that comes with immediately establishing a best friend, the way we all did as kids. I just hope that the half-life of these changes is longer than they have been previously.

As I write this, fueled by jetlag and nostalgia, I urge you to remember the little things, the things that happened so often that they would be weird to photograph (and no, smartphones don’t make it any less awkward). I am beyond grateful that I was given this chance to change. Maybe the change won’t last forever, but I’m okay with that.

Tack, Stockholm. Jag älskar så mycket dig, och jag ska längta efter dig.

untitled

2011-11-14T13:00:00.000-08:00

I’ve written a lot about writing before. And I’ve written about not being able to write, too. But the thing with me writing is that when I actually do sit down and write (which is, unfortunately, becoming less and less frequent), I do so with an idea in mind. A thought, most commonly. Something that I have intellectualized and analyzed and considered in various ways before committing to putting those thoughts into prose.

But then something happened last week.

I had been feeling like shit for a while, so I finally decided to have myself checked out by a nurse at the university. She found some lumps in my throat and recommended that I see a doctor immediately. Before you freak out, it turned out to just be a viral infection back there. Sure, it sucks, but I can handle it until it goes away.

But at that time, I was so freaked out, and so frustrated with everything that when I got home, I sat at my computer and wrote. Because I was so exhausted, my normal filters weren’t up. I wrote what I felt.

When I re-read what I had written, I was taken aback. Those pages were full of things that had been lingering in my head, not daring to come to fruition or unable to do so because I couldn’t find the right words. I had gotten to a point where I couldn’t have them in there anymore, and when I saw them all spelled out, I was scared. Shit got dark.

I did something that I had never done before. Instead of publishing, I sent the document to my mom, who, after reading said document, almost cried. What sort of person wants to make their mother cry? Needless to say, I didn’t upload.

I believe in expressing oneself. But I also believe in discretion. There are some things that I don’t feel comfortable sharing with strangers on the Internet. So sue me.

Reading that document made me realize something. I didn’t realize how much was actually getting to me. Yes, my first instinct is to think rather than feel. I may put on a tough act. But I am not invincible, and no one (besides me) expects me to be. I am not impervious to the sudden darkness, or to being alone in a foreign country, or to being frustrated with a body that can’t keep up with my mind.

But I am not fragile either.

So bring it on, Swedish winter. I can take you, mind, body, and soul.

Maybe posting this after a week’s worth of analysis on the incident is counterproductive. But hey, at least I’m writing.

fortress of solitude

2011-11-06T05:14:00.000-08:00

So, for some inexplicable reason, I am currently enjoying the second break of this semester. Not that I’m complaining. Stockholm University gets me. But, while my peers whisked away to various locations around Europe, I decided to stay put. Except, it wasn’t an actual conscious decision on my part, but rather an absence of a decision. My point is, I am here. And it is amazing.

I have this entire week to see Stockholm with fresh eyes. I walked around Central Stockholm as a tourist again yesterday, eyes wide open. I didn’t have to rush to class or to meet anyone. I got to be selfish and do everything at my own pace. I was planning on going to Gamla Stan today, but I decided that I woke up too late, so I read and cleaned my apartment. My life is terribly difficult.

While being alone is among my favorite things, I couldn’t help but notice that it emphasizes certain characteristics of mine that are a bit disturbing. For starters, I’ve been wearing the same shirt for the past two days. Of course, pants do not accompany this shirt. I have also found that it is entirely possible to subsist on coffee, but I know that I’m going to have to make a change soon.

But the most disturbing things about being alone is that all I hear are my own unfiltered thoughts.

A couple days ago, I noticed that there was the unpleasant sensation that something was lodged in my throat. It wasn’t painful and didn’t constrict my breathing, but it was annoying and even now I am very aware of its presence. No matter how violently I coughed or cleared my throat, the feeling persisted. I drank hot tea with honey, swallowed large quantities of bread, and even gargled with warm salt water (which can only be described as leaving the feeling of drinking hot ocean).

Finally, I inspected the back of my throat with a handheld mirror and my desk lamp. Then, I realized that I don’t exactly know what a normal throat should look like, so there is a possibility that something could be wrong but I simply wasn’t trained to spot it.

In a panic, I googled possible medical reason why I would feel this way. Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

Correction. Using Google Image search was the biggest mistake ever.

I was bombarded with images of strep throat and throat cancer, as well as lists of symptoms for the aforementioned that may or may not correspond with my condition. Of course, one website mentioned that it could be due to stress, so the best course of action would be to not think about it and calm down. Clearly that person does not understand how a hypochondriac functions (or does not function). I cannot stop thinking about whatever the fuck is back there, and I am far from calm. And, since there’s no distraction from it, I keep chugging tea and eating bread with the hope that it’ll just go away.

In the meanwhile, I’m going to do some more reading and figure out what I want to do for the rest of the week.

is this good?

2011-10-30T03:10:00.000-07:00

Caution: I am about to toot my own horn a teeny bit.

I have been told I am a good writer. To those of you who have said this to me, thank you.It really means a lot.

But as I sit here, writing this piece instead of one of the two papers I have due on Tuesday, I have to wonder: what constitutes a good writer? How do we know the difference?

If a good writer is determined by writing habits, then I doubt I qualify. I mean, I’m using this bit of writing here to procrastinate on writing something that will actually be assessed and graded. I do not exactly have my priorities straight at this moment in time. Also, as I am sure you have noticed (or can see by the pattern in the archives of this blog), I am not consistent. I write in spurts,and then am negligent for a while until I find inspiration or motivation or something. When I am compelled, I write. Otherwise, I fill my time in another way. Not exactly the most sustainable way to be a good writer.

If a good writer is determined by subject matter, then my qualification is also debatable. When people ask me what I write about, I am always at a loss for words. How would you answer? Life? My thoughts? Nothing? Everything? I cannot answer the question appropriately because I don’t know what the answer is. As a result, I either sound like a pretentious douchebag or an oblivious idiot, neither of which (I hope) accurately describe me. Is it possible to be a good writer when I don’t even know exactly what it is I write about? Jury’s still out.

If a good writer is determined by voice, then I guess I am okay. I know that there are very few people who share my point of view, and there are even fewer who articulate themselves in the same way. My word choice and syntax are uniquely my own, and for that I am grateful. But just because I have a distinctive style does not mean that it is any good. Valley girls have a distinctive style, but that doesn’t make them any less irritating.

So where does this breakdown leave me? Exactly where I was when I started—unsure of myself and my abilities, yet somehow still eager to persist. Maybe being a good writer is being a little bit stupid, intensely self-critical, and extraordinarily caffeinated. If that is the case, then I think I may have a bright future ahead of me. I may even be able to develop into a great writer. Of course, there is the possibility that I might spiral downward into a mess of frustration and hindered social skills. The two are not mutually exclusive. But hey, if I’m a great writer, people will be able to understand me regardless,and may even cite my idiosyncrasies as lovable quirks.

the lens

2011-10-18T13:10:00.000-07:00

Let’s bereal. I’m not above being a little bit petty sometimes. I still find myselffeeling resentment for no justifiable reason and doing stupid passiveaggressive things about which I am not proud at a later time.

That’s notto say that I’m a terrible person. I swear I can be nice sometimes. Sweet,even. But these instances are not relevant to this post, so I’m going to movealong.

Wait.Actually they might be. There are instances when the degree to which I need tomake other people happy surprises me. I think that because I don’t exactly havethe best track record when it comes to friendship, when I identify someone withpotential, I jump on the opportunity.

For example,I align myself with the other person, consciously or unconsciously, in terms ofcultural consumption or opinion, in the hopes of receiving some sort ofvalidation. Sometimes that alignment manifests itself in the form of picking upcertain mannerisms, which is just as creepy and unsettling for me as I imagineit would be for the other person. But, because I like the other person, I’mokay with assimilating.

Conversely,when I decide I dislike someone, I find myself resorting to childishness as anactive attempt to further my dislike. If someone that falls into this categorywere to say something that I legitimately found funny, I would do my best notto laugh because I wouldn’t want to give that person the satisfaction.

Yes, Irealize that this behavior is irrational and immature. But try and tell me thatyou have never done the same thing.

Thinkingabout my perception of certain people and how that established image affectsthe way in which I interpret their actions made me think of a little game I haveplayed walking around in Stockholm. The rules are simple: identify a personwhose actions are inherently inoffensive, then imagine that that person is arapist/murderer.

With thissimple change, those seemingly innocent actions have a projected motivation,and are therefore tainted. That man walking down the street listening to hisiPod? That old lady sitting on a bench? The dude browsing an aisle in thegrocery store? All of them are demented, and everything they do reflect theirderanged way of thinking. I mean, I understand that those observations are notnecessarily true (though they might be). But it’s fascinating to see howsomeone can change so drastically without any action on their part.

Playing thisgame has made me wonder what sort of impression I give to strangers. How muchdo I give away with the way I walk or talk? Through what sort of lens am Iviewed? Do other people think about things like this with as much frequency?

My guess isprobably not.

Also, I don’tmean anything by “give away.” There isn’t anything wrong with me that I need tohide. I promise.

first impressions (again)

2011-10-11T00:59:00.000-07:00

I thinkwe’ve established that I do things that don’t make a ton of sense. Also, weknow by now that things that shouldn’t make people uncomfortable make meuncomfortable.

Last weekwas fall break, which means that everyone sort of split off and did someexploring around Europe. As previously mentioned, I went to Berlin then London.I had fun. I have no problem saying so.

But, forsome reason, when someone who I haven’t seen for a while asks me how my breakwas, I panic. I guess part of it can be traced back to this post, which isalarming in its implications of how little I’ve grown since third grade.

Also, partof that discomfort could stem from my tendency to let other people dominate theconversation and only contribute when necessary (usually in the form of asnarky comment). So when all the focus is put on me, I don’t know what to do,or how long it is acceptable to talk uninterrupted. Plus, I don’t know if theother person actually cares about the minutiae of my trip or the details I tendto notice. Do other people care about bricks? Does anyone else find the waypeople walk in train stations fascinating?

I alwaysfeel like I’m boring the other person, so I usually end up mumbling somethingalong the lines of “It was so much fun, except I got sick. But how was yours?”then listen while they recount their trip. Maybe it’s cynical of me, but when Italk I feel like the other person isn’t really listening, but is just waitingfor a break so they can talk. Someone once told me that the key to gettinganother person to like you is to let that person talk about himself.

Anotherthing I never look forward to after a break is the first day back. I know itsounds stupid, but after being separated from other people for a while, I feelpressured to make a good first impression again, even though they already knowme and nothing about me has really changed. I’ve learned that dressing forother people usually ends with me wearing something that feels like a costume,but my logic takes a backseat to my need to remind people that I still exist. Luckily,I was feeling terrible yesterday, so I saw no problem wearing a sweater thatlooks like a blanket on the first day back. Besides, the tissue rash on my facewas doing me no favors.

I figuredthat if I looked as miserable as I felt, people would stay away for fear ofinfection. Crisis averted.

little girl lost

2011-10-09T05:18:00.000-07:00

If you haven’t been able to tell, writing has not come easily for me recently. In fact, my writer’s block was so intense that I feared I would remain in a state of permanent stasis.

Which was why I was so excited for the first break in my semester. A group of my friends and I were going to Berlin, then I was splitting off from the group to visit family in London. I was sure that the change in location would jolt me out of my dormancy.

Oh, Berlin jolted me, but not quite as I anticipated.

With my writer’s block and all, I may have been wordless before. But, in Berlin, I was rendered completely speechless. Every other moment was marked by a “wtf?” from someone in my group. There were so many contradictions, so many incongruities, and so many moments of sheer lunacy. To me, Berlin will always evoke a strong sense of confusion.

Greatly dismayed, I was pushed even further into my silence. It wasn’t until we visited the Berlin Wall that I felt myself re-awakening. I was acutely aware that I was witnessing the aftermath of events with monumental historical significance, but in the midst of it all, people were just trying to live their lives. All of a sudden, I had an epiphany. There were people whose voices were permanently snuffed out. Mine was just hibernating.

Yes, writer’s block is an occupational hazard that comes second to paper cuts in terms of agony (especially when I find them via hand sanitizer), but it isn’t the end of the world. This little girl might be lost right now, but she still has access to words. Sure, they may not flow as nicely or articulately as she is accustomed, but they still have potential. What matters is that the words don’t stop.

After the jarring experience of seeing a site of terror firsthand, it was good to spend time in London as a palate cleanser. Of course, there has been bloodshed and horror all over (on a side note, the Tower of London was easily my favorite tourist site). But the wounds were less fresh, and the rawness I felt from Berlin was not present there.

So what did I learn from this trip? Nothing I didn’t know before: life goes on. Sometimes I might feel stuck, but it’s up to me to keep on moving. The present will someday be part of history, and it’s up to me to poke my head out and be part of it.

I guess I just needed to be reminded.

a matter of tact

2011-09-14T10:16:00.000-07:00

Yes, I realize that this title is terrible, even for me. My sincerest apologies.

As I was getting ready for class today, my mind wandered to the subject of the Jim Carrey film, Liar, Liar (as it is wont to do). When viewing this film for the first time as a small child, I was taken in by the slapstick humor and elasticity of one Mr. Carrey’s face. But, since that initial viewing, questions about the film have plagued me, finally spurring me to write about them today.

The premise of the film is simple enough: a pathological liar loses the ability to lie for an entire day, thanks to his son’s birthday wish. Hilarity ensues.

But, at least from my point of view, it doesn’t have to. Sure, that version of the film would have been far less entertaining, but it also would have been less infuriating.

Let’s suspend disbelief and deem this involuntary bout of honesty a possibility.Carrey immediately spews his honest opinions about those around him, performs horribly in court, and has a memorable interaction with a pen during the course of the movie.

All of these things make for great comedy, but logically, I have a problem with the plot.Was there a clause of the wish that somehow went unmentioned? Did he lose his filter completely?My point is, it was as though every thought he had needed to be verbalized, regardless of social convention. Why couldn’t he have just kept his thoughts to himself? He didn’t necessarily have to tell his boss that she was repulsive, nor did he need to scream that his client was guilty. He could have thought it, but rather than lie outright, he could have just opted not to say anything at all.

My argument could be invalidated, however, if the filmmakers were taking a stance on honesty, equating withholding the truth with verbally lying. Then, not only would they be questioning whether honesty is the best policy, but they would shatter the foundation of what constitutes a lie. This film could have had the potential to alter social conventions forever.

But, since I don’t know the filmmakers personally, nor do I know anyone who would be willing to discuss such matters with me, I won’t know for sure. These questions will simply persist in my mind, among other queries (How can I get my hair to behave? Why is everything so expensive in Stockholm? How did I manage to chip off such a large portion of my nail polish without noticing?)

I do think that honesty is important in any relationship, but I also value the silence that comes when something doesn’t need to be said. In fact, I think that the sign of a true adult is one who knows when to shut the hell up.

on manrepelling

2011-09-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

For those of you unfamiliar, please go here so that the rest of this post makes sense to you. Or not. I’m a writer, not the police.

As a quick recap, I am in Stockholm. Stockholm is fantastic: the food is yummy, the buildings are gorgeous, the language is entertaining. But my favorite thing about Stockholm so far is the people. Not only are they gorgeous, but they dress incredibly well.

Which brings me back to man repelling. As a young woman, I recognize that now is the prime of my life, at least, in terms of looks. I also understand the importance of utilizing what I have to my advantage. Even though I get it on an intellectual level, I am driven towards dressing like a crazy person. On a regular day, it is safe to assume that fifty percent of whatever I am wearing is intended for men, and the rest are usually made for someone outside side of my age demographic (from toddler to old lady; I tend to swing to the extremes).

After stumbling upon the Man Repeller, I realized that I may or may not have found a kindred spirit. Someone who dresses to make herself happy, and does not necessarily adhere to normal standards of beauty. In fact, she often puts ensembles together just to see what happens.

This is how I get all the men.

While I appreciate her efforts, I have to wonder about the legitimacy of manrepelling. Even though she prides herself on her sartorial freedom, she still (for the most part) looks nice. At least, the individual pieces are nice. Other times, however, I feel like she puts in serious effort to look as ludicrous as possible, just for the sake of looking ludicrous. Those posts are entertaining, but I find them less genuine, and therefore not in the spirit of dressing to make oneself happy.

Thinking about manrepelling reminds me of what elementary school teachers used to tell me: “Just be yourself and people will like you. You’ll make friends eventually.”

The thing is, a saying like that is way too idealistic. Growing up, I’ve learned that people lie all the time. Call me a cynic, but being yourself doesn’t mean that people will like you. Your self might be crazy.

By being a manrepeller, I get to express myself and know that I am happy and comfortable in my skin. However, it also means that I will not be attracting any males any time soon. Should I just give in? Sacrifice a little bit of individuality so that I may be happier later on?

Judging by the fact that I am sitting in my apartment wearing mens boxer briefs and a shirt whose name is White Tiger Stalk, I don’t think that that sort of sacrifice is going to happen any time soon.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait for someone to actually like me for me. Lucky me. And lucky him.

the gamble

2011-08-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

Although it seems like much longer, I arrived in Stockholm about three days ago. With delay after delay, I thought that this arduous journey could not get any worse, until all of my frustration culminated in the loss of all my luggage. Needless to say, it sucked balls. What’s important now is that I’m here and happy.

Now that the obligatory introduction to a new locale has been completed, I can move on to the point of this post.

I am not the gambling type. Considering my track record, I think it would probably be better to bet against me. But taking gambling advice from me would be a bad idea.

Living in Sweden requires me to take huge risks. Before you groan about a stereotypical inspirational blather about being open-minded and proactive to make friends and learn about the culture, know this. I am talking about something with way higher stakes: food.

I went grocery shopping for the first time yesterday, and was immediately overwhelmed by how little Swedish I knew. Sure, the pictures on the labels were semi-helpful, but at the end of the day I just wanted everything to be simple. Is it so terrible to want to buy a bottle of still water with the confidence that it won’t be sparkling? Is it so wrong to want to take a sip of juice with the confidence that it is, in fact, juice? Am I so unreasonable to want to know what granola package contains straight up granola?

I really hope that these are strawberry/raspberry yogurt and crackers. We’ll see.

But that isn’t even the biggest fear I have with food.

Once, I went to a bakery and ordered a chocolate croissant, mouth watering at the thought of its potential for deliciousness. However, the universe had something different in mind. When I took my first bite, I was bombarded with ham (which I detest) and cheese (which is actually okay). Maybe the ham and cheese croissant wasn’t terrible, but since my mindset was fixed on the notion of chocolate, the incongruity between my expectations and reality was jarring.

In other words, this.

Back to Stockholm.

I was ready to buy milk, but remembered someone mentioning that sour cream is often in a nearly identical package to that of milk. The labels even resemble each other.

Sure I can navigate the Tunnelbana (Stockholm subway system) and find my way around Gamla Stan (Old Town Stockholm) without any trouble. But read and make a decision? Preposterous.

Can you imagine pouring sour cream over some cereal? Unfortunately, I can, and far too vividly. I left the store without milk today. If I muster up the courage, there may be some in my future. But yesterday? I made a safe bet.

the mary-kate philosophy

2011-08-24T03:13:00.000-07:00

Recently, I conducted another little social experiment, this time involving a very dear friend of mine. This lovely girl, who shall be henceforth referred to as Subject H, is notoriously bad at textual communication. To make plans with her required me to actively seek out her current situation, then call her to make sure she was awake during our specified meeting time. No spontaneity with this one.

It started innocently enough. I wanted to talk to my friend. But as I became frustrated with my uninterrupted string of displayed text messages on my phone, the researcher in me emerged with a diabolical plan.

Since we have been separated since the end of last semester, I decided that I would test what exactly I would have to text to her to illicit a response or, god willing, a conversation.

I began with simple texts, nothing too serious, that said something along the lines of “hello how are you I miss you,” except less desperate and more friendly. Subject H responded rather infrequently, and when she did, her texts were often mono or disyllabic. None of these warranted the response for which I had hoped (a conversation with a friend).

I then took the next logical step and upped the ante. I texted increasingly outlandish things to receive some sort of validation. I referenced inside jokes, made comments with which I was sure Subject H would agree with my opinion, and emphasized how much I value her as a friend.

What finally caught her attention was this text, verbatim: “there’s a smudged spider carcass on the ceiling of my bathroom. i left it there as a warning to the others.”

This carefully crafted narrative was perfect in ways that I only realized after the fact. Yes, it was crazy. But it was also true. This text message contained enough normalcy to be plausible, but it was also riddled with a wtf factor that was as undeniable as it was alluring.

Which brings me to the title of this post.

If you know me, then it’s possible you are aware of my unhealthy obsession with Mary-Kate Olsen. Yes, I’ve seen her various film and television projects, I’ve lusted after her clothing lines, and follow a few fashion blogs devoted to her sartorial choices.

After conducting this little experiment, it occurred to me that that same philosophy applies to other things in life as well. For me, the most apparent example lies in my fascination with MK.

Sure, her normalcy isn’t quite as obvious. Her upbringing certainly doesn’t help my hypothesis. But she does normal people things: she drinks Starbucks, she goes to the airport, she does yoga. Likewise, her clothes are fundamentally normal: pants, shirts, heels. But she also has that wtf factor that makes me ever so curious. Why is her coffee so comically large? Why are there so many superfluous layers on such a small frame? Why would she decide to wear six-inch heels on a flight?

The reason why MK stands out in my mind is that she’s not completely normal, but also not completely batshit. She straddles the line, and sometimes errs on the latter side, but she isn’t on either extreme. She doesn't seem to be dressing like a crazy person so that other people with notice how alternative she is. She looks to me like she genuinely enjoys herself, which makes her all the more compelling. I look forward to what she comes up with next, with the hope that she will remain creative to satisfy herself and not just to be crazy for crazy's sake.

It is for this reason that my spider text sparked a conversation. It wasn’t a mundane catch-up, but it also wasn’t a plot to murder someone or something else equally insane. It was a true story with a hint of lunacy that was interesting enough to start a dialogue, but not so extreme that it was inaccessible as a starting point for discourse.

It has been nine days since you last texted me. Your move, Subject H. Unless you want me to go all MK on you. I don't mind; I actually kind of like it.

All photos courtesy of Olsens Anonymous (not so anonymous anymore).

social experiment: pacing and spacing (or walking, for normal people)

2011-08-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

Before you go on about how walking doesn’t seem to be that difficult, do me a favor. Next time you’re walking around, pay attention. I mean really pay attention. Notice the order in which the parts of your feet make contact with the ground. Listen to determine whether or not your breathing and footsteps are in sync. Feel the role your arms play in propelling you forward. If you can maintain a normal stride while being painfully self-aware, I commend you. Apparently, I cannot.

For most people, walking is a process that requires very little thought. But upon further inspection, there are certain rules one obeys, and, more often than not, does not even consider their existence.

I’ll begin with the most basic rule: pace is important. I noticed that I tend to walk with a purpose, regardless of whether I actually have one. As a result, I keep a brisk pace. I suppose my upbringing plays a large role in my pre-set rhythm; my mother walks fairly quickly, so if I couldn’t keep up I would be left behind. But walking around in a city has undoubtedly contributed as well. There isn’t a predetermined pace for the sidewalk per se, but it is very easy to tell when someone is going above or below the speed limit.

Likewise, there is an unspoken decorum about spacing. Of course, I think my personal space bubble may be larger than the average person, but most people will agree that there is a certain threshold when it comes to spacing on a sidewalk, both laterally and longitudinally (?). Spellcheck tells me that that is a word, so I am going to continue. Spellcheck is apparently not a word.

Anyway, there is a safe distance that must remain between strangers, and therefore people must adjust accordingly. There are some instances that cause confusion for yours truly, like revolving doors (is it okay to share a segment with someone if you know the person? I mean, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with a stranger, but I also don’t like being cramped in there. Also, I am uneasy about the idea of having my heels run over by the partition or being knocked over in general. I usually just wait the awkward amount of time for the next available space and go at it alone.), but in general people act without giving it a second thought.

Despite my fairly rigid ideas about what constitutes “correct” walking etiquette, I decided to play around with other people’s concepts of propriety. Also, I was hopped up on caffeine with no productive outlet. Naturally, I resorted to testing the patience of those around me.

I began by messing with pacing. I tore down Powell, making sure not to disrupt anyone else as I wove expertly between groups of milling tourists. I didn’t really elicit any response, but I was thrown the occasional dirty look as I bypassed some of the larger groups, who were not unlike grazing cattle. Not that they were fat or anything.

I then tried the other extreme: I moved at a glacial pace, espresso in hand, with a complacent if not slightly spacey expression on my face. I could feel people losing their patience around me, but since I was alone, it was fairly easy for people to walk around me, quickening their pace noticeably, as if to admonish me and set an example for how I should behave. I had to wonder whether this act of passive-aggression was intentional. I had to stop, however, because I was becoming annoyed with myself. It is surprisingly difficult to defy what one was hard-wired to do.

After recording my findings, I moved onto spacing. This portion was much more difficult than the pacing portion because of the amount of external factors over which I had no control. The lateral portion proved the most challenging by far. It was almost impossible to walk alongside someone without the other person changing pace almost immediately. Ignoring my overwhelming feelings of rejection, I put the situation in perspective and realized that I, too, would be creeped out if a random person (no matter how cute) started to walk alongside me. I would quicken my pace, which is what most people did. I guess it’s a subtler means of escape than exaggerating the walking motion to slow down. It would have been funny, though.

I had more success with the longitudinal test. I found the threshold at which people started to notice there was someone behind them with relative ease, as indicated by the person in front looking back, but after crossing that line, the results varied significantly. More sensitive folks altered their pace upon realization that I was trailing them. Others looked back, and, realizing that I posed no physical threat, continued their consistent speed until I got too close, then changed. One woman didn’t even look back, and I was three steps behind her for about five blocks until she turned in the opposite direction of where I was headed. Either her peripheral awareness was lacking, or she didn’t care that I was following her rather obviously.

So what have I learned today? People, myself included, like their personal space, and make adjustments, either consciously or unconsciously, to maintain that space. There are unspoken rules that only come to people’s attention when they have been violated. Creeping on strangers can be fun when executed considerately. In other words, I have learned nothing.

spoiler alert

2011-08-10T23:00:00.000-07:00

Warning: This blog post contains spoilers for the Sailor Moon series. Not that any of you guys probably care. But just in case...

While I was bedridden, I was sure to make use of my time productively. I mean, I literally had to be horizontal, so I took advantage of my disability. I watched all two hundred episodes of Sailor Moon, an activity that I had not done since I was in elementary school. Despite my usually impeccable memory, parts of the storyline were fuzzy. After all, Sailor Moon was such a complex, nuanced series. I was shocked at just how useless Tuxedo Mask was, how mean Sailor Mars was, and just how much Serena's character developed.

But as I was watching on YouTube, I noticed that some of the episode numberings were off, leading to confusion and frustration on my part. Naturally, I consulted the authority on all things Internet-related: Wikipedia.

People like me should avoid Wikipedia. Not only are there endless ways to become immersed in the content until I can't remember my original purpose for visiting the site, but there are also spoilers. Lots of them.

Yes, I did manage to figure out why there were discrepancies in the numbering (it was a matter of what was released here versus Japan, as well as what was dubbed versus subtitled). But because I am composed of equal parts curiosity and stubbornness, I couldn't help but read the spoilers about the general plot. Even though I didn't want to, I learned about the whole Queen Serenity plotline (it was super obvious how that one was going to turn out).

I had unwittingly learned the synopsis of the entire series. Luckily, I had the self control to ignore the descriptions of each individual episode.

At least, I did on Wikipedia.

But as I was watching on YouTube, I developed the nasty habit of reading the comments as I waited for the video to load. There was one episode I regret doing so in particular. Because I hate myself and enjoy ruining things, I read the comments as usual, only to read one that said something along the lines of "Rini is Serena's daughter from the future?!?!?!?!?!"

If only you were present to hear the colorful language that erupted forth from my outraged mouth.

I had completely forgotten that detail. I was angry at a complete stranger for ruining a surprise that I had forgotten. But I was even angrier with myself for being weak. Also, for not learning my lesson. I spoiled Serenity for myself (Spolier alert: Wash dies). I spoiled the first season of True Blood for myself (Spoiler alert: Rene is the murderer). I even spoiled Dexter for myself (Spoiler alert: Dexter and Rita have a baby. Although, technically it was Netflix's fault because they showed the cover of the dvds and the third season had Dexter with a baby. Also, Rita dies). I cannot tell you how many books I have ruined for myself when flipping to the last page to find out how I can evenly divide the pages among a certain amount of time.

It probably doesn't help that Spoiler alert is usually written in bold, thus drawing the eye toward the words.

a benevolent dictator?

2011-08-07T02:20:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I am alone in this, but I have often wondered what would happen if I were given complete, omnipotent control in a world without restraints. Luckily, for like-minded people of my generation, there is an outlet through which we can see just what kind of ruler we may be. I am talking, of course, about the Sims franchise.

I have been an avid player since the inception of the game; my first exposure to this experiment occurred at the tender age of ten. I didn’t realize it at the time, but by playing, I was beginning to answer the age-old conundrum: does great responsibility necessarily come with great power?

She looks pleasant.

At first, I was purely pragmatic. The choices I made affected the lives of these people in concrete ways, and so I did everything in my power to make it as easy for me as possible. Did I want them to die of starvation? If not, I should probably make them build their Cooking skills. Similarly, it made sense that they should pursue careers in which the skills necessary were skills that the Sims would need to survive anyways. Hence, during the first phase of my gameplaying years, my Sims were all chefs.

But that quickly became boring. And, as you probably know, a bored me is a dangerous me.

It should also be noted that my game experienced a glitch around this time, permanently disabling the save function. In other words, there were literally no lasting repercussions to the actions I decided to take. There were no consequences and no responsibilities.

Sure, I would do my best to make my Sims the best they could possibly be. But, after a couple of hours of succeeding without any challenge, my Sims would ultimately find themselves in a tiny carpeted room with no windows or doors being forced to play with fireworks for hours on end. Or, if I decided to draw the inevitable deaths out further, I would simply remove the ladders from the pool (before the Sims creators upgraded the game so it wouldn’t matter) and watch as they circled the metaphorical drain. Also, I considered it an achievement to have a social worker take away the children or for the Tragic Clown to attempt to ameliorate the situation. The levels of cruelty I exhibited were unprecedented, and luckily, have yet to reappear.

Once I upgraded my game, however, my sense of responsibility returned. Instead of committing horrifying acts of sadism, I devoted my energy to making my Sims extraordinary. They strove to master every skill, befriend every citizen, and reach the top of their careers as the indisputable best. Not only were they capable of taking care of themselves, but they were cultured and interesting to other Sims. Some even became Celebrities. These SuperSims were the fruit of all my efforts and wasted hours. They were no longer my playthings. They were individuals, and they deserved the best.

I have to wonder, now that I have a bit of distance, if the change in my attitude reflected what was happening in my development. As I matured, I put increasing value in merit, and less in senseless violence that I knew would be absolved the next time I logged in to play. I suppose I figured that being pimped out was a much more favorable option than dying repeatedly with no recollection of the previous death.

I know I’m not the only one who has subjected their Sims to oddities. But I do know that I am far less inclined to do so presently. It is quite upsetting to watch a Sim to whom I have dedicated a large amount of time fry from electrocution. Especially when that Sim was just about to achieve her Lifetime Goal. I’m not bitter.

I really must be growing up.

it's a bit early in the night to post something that makes this little sense

2011-08-05T22:20:00.001-07:00

As I was lying in bed during yet another sleepless night, I thought to myself, “Welp, now’s as good a time as any to write.” So here I am.

Students who desperately need money are a cliché, but that doesn’t make us any less real. Hell, clichés have to come from somewhere, right? Unfortunately for me, being out of school also means I’m out of a job (unless someone out there needs someone to archive historical documents or make snarky comments. call me!). But that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried. Here are some tips I have, based on my personal experience, on how to be a failed entrepreneur.

Step 1. Be lazy.

That’s all I have so far. You can’t expect me to be consistently brilliant in the middle of the night.

Sweet dreams! Salvatore is watching you.

PS I'm working on a new bracelet.

PPS It's less cute as a mustache.

Ignore the almonds.

this post is not for the faint of heart

2011-08-02T14:07:00.000-07:00

I realize that my morbidity may make a few people uncomfortable. As a courtesy to those people, I have written this disclaimer. If you don’t necessarily enjoy reading about the often graphic inner workings of a young mind, please consider perusing this website for something less obviously messed up. I wish you well on your endeavors.

This is my muse, Salvatore. He’s sassy. And before you ask, why yes, I do love unicorns.

For those of you who decided to stick around, hello. I am now going to share with you a thought process that I experience nearly every day.

Maybe I read too many books in my formative years. Maybe I spend more time in my own head than in the real world. Maybe this kind of behavior is completely normal. But sometimes, my vivid imagination gets the best of me and I have to stop and take a second to remember which is reality and which is fiction.

For example, when I’m sitting in a car, I often have to overwhelming urge to open the door and unbuckle myself. I know that it’s dangerous and I’m not supposed to do it, but I’ve always been so curious about what would happen if I did. At times, the urge has been so severe that I’ve had to lock the door and sit on my hands so I don’t do anything stupid. Or gruesome.

Although I’m not a mathematical person, I find myself considering the probability of being injured on a daily basis, and marveling at the fact that I have somehow beaten the odds.

Think, for instance, about how many times you may have walked through tanbark in open-toed shoes. Or ran through a thicket of trees without any protective eyewear. Or stepped on one of those bumpy yellow things at the corner of every intersection (I don’t actually know what they’re called, but you must know what I mean) without consciously deciding where to put your feet.

There were plenty of opportunities for the universe to flip you a huge middle finger and lodge an errant piece of wood under one of your toenails, stab you in the eye, or twist your ankle so you fall into the street.

But it didn’t. For something so horrific to happen, the circumstances would have to be exactly right (or exactly wrong, depending on whether or not you’re the recipient). And, if I can trust my mathematical skills, the odds of that happening are very slim. I suppose that also depends on the frequency with which one performs these tasks.

Even though I understand the logic, I know that I will always tread carefully on tanbark, extend both hands in front of me to catch tree branches, and place the heel of my shoes exactly between two yellow bumps on the ground. No matter how curious I get, I will lock the door and occupy my attention with something else (my phone). I’d rather not tempt fate. We’ve hung out before, and we don’t exactly get along. Fate was the one who gave me a papercut between my index and middle finger on my right hand so that I couldn’t type properly. Fate was the one who gave me a mosquito bite on the inside of my left nostril, just out of reach and making it look like I was digging for gold.

if a quiz is quizzical, what is a test?

2011-07-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

In a none-too-rare moment of procrastination, I took a personality test. Normally, I don’t take these things too seriously. I mean, there are personality tests in magazines like Cosmo. But after suspending disbelief, I started noticing patterns. Namely, to what extent my paranoia dictates the way in which I think.

The medium of the test truly makes a difference. I know I can’t be the only one who, when taking a personality test in a magazine, has peeked at the results then tried to engineer my responses so they align with my perceived ideal. It’s fairly easy to tell which are the “correct” answers. For example, the responses to the question “What do you do when you see a cute guy across the room?” are something along the lines of a) avoid him like the plague, b) make eye contact for a few seconds and smile, or c) take off your top. The person is immediately determined to be cold, “normal,” or kind of skanky.

But taking a test like this online was a completely different experience. First of all, the subject matter was less trivial. Instead of focusing on dating etiquette, or trying to determine what type of man is best for me (nerds or artists. how groundbreaking.), this quiz was about my work ethic and habits. I had to actually stop and think about what my honest response would be.

The method for answering complicated my process as well. There were ten bubbles for each statement, and I would have to rate the statement’s relevance to my personal philosophy on a scale of one to ten. The thing is, some of the statements had multiple clauses, and some were more relevant than others.

Therein began my struggle. How do I compensate for any discrepancies? As a result, there were not many responses on either extreme. Not everything can be distilled as simply as “exactly like me” or “exactly the opposite of me.” Plus, my responses could vary dramatically depending on my state of mind or time of day, but that does mean that my response would be any less true. As I was looking over my responses, I realized just how noncommittal I came across.

Then the paranoia set on. What if my test was being live streamed where someone could tell how long it took for me to respond? Could someone see how many times I changed my answer before I settled on what was as close to the truth as possible? Was that part of the test? If I were to conduct this sort of experiment, I would definitely take these factors into consideration.

Of course, I know that it would be incredibly impractical for someone to carry out what I have just described. I also know that my tendency to overcomplicate things plays a large part in this caffeine-fueled rant. I mean, I sort of know. A part of me still wonders if someone is as dedicated to being a creeper as me.

work in progress

2011-07-26T00:33:00.000-07:00

I am currently working through a new idea, but as I was procrastinating, I stumbled upon a personality quiz at http://psychcentral.com/personality-patterns/. Here are my results. I don't think they will surprise anyone.

Introspective

You are thoughtful, rational, and comfortable in the world of ideas. People find you interesting to talk to. You're the living embodiment of the saying "You learn something new every day." In general, those with a high score on the "intellectual" trait are employed in such fields as teaching and research, and are enthusiastic about reading, foreign films, and classical music. You do not avoid abstract conversation, experimenting with new ideas, or studying new things. It bores you to stick to the straight and narrow of what you already know.

Intellectual

Conscientious

You feel it's important to work according to a plan and finish every task, to do things correctly and thoroughly. You are not the kind of person who abandons a project before finishing it, or slacks off when you've lost interest.

Aesthetic

You appreciate art, beauty, and design; you know that they are not superficial but absolutely crucial to living the good life. You have good taste, and you're proud of it. Those with a high score on the "aesthetic" trait are often employed in literary or artistic professions, enjoy domestic activities — doing things around the house — and are enthusiastic about the arts, reading, and travel. You don't think it's pretentious to be moved by art and beauty. You're not one of those who believe it doesn't matter what something looks like as long as it does its job.

Competent

You strive to master everything you undertake. You tend to learn quickly and do not shy away from challenges. You are not a "que sera sera" type of person, nor do you go easy on yourself when attempting to master a new skill or get a job done.

Scrupulous

You are an honest, fair person. You don't lie or cheat to get ahead. You treat others with respect and hope for the same in return. You do not feel that you are above the rules that everyone else follows; you are definitely not willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead.

Organized

You like to think a task through before you embark on it. If it's the slightest bit complicated, you make a list (even if it's only in your mind) and methodically work your way through it. When you have a goal in mind, you're not satisfied until you reach it. You are not one of those people who ignore the details, and you don't understand how anyone can get anything accomplished without thoughtful planning ahead of time.

Astute

You are a quick study. You generally don't need to have things explained to you more than once. When presented with a problem, you will often have an instant understanding of where to look for the solution. You do not take your sweet time when presented with a new task to complete or problem to solve. You don't avoid assignments that require you to learn new skills.

Curious

You like to get to the bottom of things. You're not content knowing what someone did; you want to know why they did it. You don't simply take things as they are and move on; you're not content skimming along on the surface; you don't feel you're wasting time by digging for the meaning of things.

Cooperative

You enjoy teamwork, play well with others, and prefer getting along to winning. You're not compelled to win every contest nor to be right all the time.

Normally, I would end this post with some sort of conclusion about what I have learned about myself. But not today. I'm tired.

relational paranoia

2011-07-24T19:01:00.001-07:00

I know that I write quite a bit about not being self-conscious, touting its advantages and preaching self-confidence. But, writing about that got me thinking about times when I feel self-conscious, and, conversely, times when I do not feel self-conscious. My brain is a vicious chocolate and vanilla swirl.

I can tell when a relationship is successful by the frequency with which I don’t feel self-conscious. That statement is in no way revolutionary. But I know that we’re solid when we can be in complete silence and it’s not weird. In fact, as horrible as it sounds, some of the best times I’ve had with my friends are when we’re not talking at all. You should know that you mean a lot to me if I like to simply be with you.

But then I got to thinking again. What if I had completely misinterpreted all those interactions? What if what I considered blissfully quiet car rides and relaxing afternoons were actually horribly awkward experiences for the other party? While I was perfectly content, the other person may have been suffering in silence, struggling to break the tension I failed to notice. Now I’m the asshole who stared out the window the whole way to the restaurant. I’m the creeper sitting on the floor with her nose in a book. Great.

The risk of misinterpretation extends beyond physical encounters. As some of you may know, the easiest way to communicate with me is through text. They are called CrackBerries for a reason; mine never leaves my side. Although texting is convenient, I can’t help but worry about each one I send. Funnily enough, my biggest challenge is punctuation. The irony of a prospective writer tormented by punctuation does not escape me.

If I am excited about my response, I will include an exclamation point. But, the more I include, the more disingenuous (or creepy) my message comes across. Likewise emoticons. “Hi!” “I’m so excited to see you again!” “That was so much fun!” :] :] :D

In addition, I don’t like texting fragments, so most of my messages are punctuated with commas, periods, and even the occasional semicolon. I know that the inclusion of these punctuation marks makes even the most casual text seem formal, but I can’t break myself of the habit. A dangling text makes me uncomfortable.

The trouble is, someone who is not familiar with the way in which I speak and write might misinterpret my messages as stuffy or even standoffish, of which I am neither. I’ve tried combating this problem by omitting capital letters, but I’m not sure about the degree to which I’ve been successful. I’m concerned that my texting looks more disjointed than ever. Or like I have issues with typing like an adult.

Of course, there’s a definite possibility that I’m overthinking the situation, as usual. Maybe no one else dissects every social interaction like me. And if I've made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I'm really sorry. I understand.

social experiment: making life difficult for others

2011-07-22T21:23:00.000-07:00

This post was supposed to be published days ago, but, ironically, I experienced technical difficulties.

i suppose i did this to myself

2011-07-12T16:42:00.001-07:00

As it is summer, I now have time to do things that I cannot during the school year. Unfortunately, this newfound freedom has given me the opportunity to rekindle a relationship that I classify as tumultuous at best. I’m talking, of course, about my relationship with arts and crafts, which I lovingly refer to as DIY (do it yourself).

I don’t remember when I realized that I was crafty, but as a child I always found myself fidgeting, perpetually seeking something to do with my hands (insert inappropriate joke here yourself, because I’m not going to). Over time, I have taught myself to sew, knit, crochet, embroider, and cross-stitch. In other words, if my previous post about being an old woman didn’t convince you, these tidbits ought to do the trick.

These little hobbies may seem harmless to you, but you, my friend, are wrong. Arts and crafts can consume your soul faster than you can ask me why my bedroom smells like craft glue and sadness.

It all starts with an introduction. A fleeting glance, a bit of hearsay, maybe even online research, for you modern folk out there. When I come across something I like, something doable, I am instantly attracted. I have to know more about it. How can I do something like that for myself? I find the way that makes the most sense and, while the pace varies depending on my initial interest, I pursue.

Once I figure out exactly what it is I need to do, I begin to feel myself being drawn in. Out of curiosity, I ask around about similar experiences, taking mental notes about what to do and what to avoid. I invest both time and money into preparing to take the plunge. All this preparation builds until it spills over and I have to do something.

Before I know it, I’m hooked. I spend every waking hour devoted to my new hobby/obsession, neglecting to eat, sleep, and converse with less insane people (I still have time to talk to myself). I have to finish this, dammit.

After the first project is finished successfully, I become insatiable, immediately moving on to increasingly more difficult tasks, sometimes working on multiple ones simultaneously. Anything to get my fix.

Inevitably, this whirlwind phase must come to an end. I realize that my fingers are now blistered, and there is superglue under my fingernails that will probably never come off. Either that or I lose interest and seek something else to do.

Eventually I stop altogether, and may or may not return. In the meanwhile, I’m going to continue making friendship bracelets and painting my nails. Not simultaneously, of course. They would ruin each other.

Yes, it is taped to my laptop. And yes, that is a unicorn murdering ponies in front of a rainbow.

foucault and twitter: analyzing the author function

2011-07-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

Or, How Twitter Inspired Me to Change My Life. Except, not in an earth-shattering way. More like in an “oh, well this is an interesting way to think about a social networking site” sort of way. Come on. It’s Twitter.

In today’s society, fame can be achieved in a multitude of ways. There are still the tried-and-true methods of attaining this sort of status, such as possessing a talent or acting toward the betterment of humankind, yet with the “advancements” in modern times, these traditional methods are no longer the only manner with which to gain fame, or at the very least, infamy. With the rise of social media like Twitter, it has become more and more difficult for celebrities today to maintain a superhuman image because they do not adhere to Foucault’s “author function.”

In “What is an Author?” Michel Foucault emphasizes the inextricable link between the author and his or her work. Foucault first distinguishes a “writer” from an “author,” in that “[a]n anonymous text posted on a wall probably has a writer—but not an author.” In other words, the author is one who not only produces a work, but also takes ownership for that work.

Following this logic, in taking ownership of the work, the author and the work are forever associated with the other in what Foucault refers to as the “author function.” The author becomes the creator of a genre unique to his or her name; by attributing a work to a specific author, there are certain expectations about the work that are formed simply because of the use of a name. As Foucault writes, “the name seems always to be present, marking off the edges of the text, revealing, or at least characterizing, its mode of being.” The work and the author are therefore eternally tied.

Forming this link is important in acquiring cultural capital for the name. Cultural capital is, according to Pierre Bourdieu in his essay entitled “The Forms of Capital,” the intangible set of skills or knowledge an individual possess. Cultural capital may consist of education as well. In this case, the cultural capital comes in the form of reputation. If an author has been established as esteemed in his or her genre, his or her subsequent works will be preceded by that reputation. Readers familiar with the author’s previous works will buy the book based on the name, and will read with a set of expectations.

While this link is often made unconsciously in the reader’s mind, there have been deliberate efforts to maintain the cohesion between author and work as long as written works have been in existence. As previously mentioned, the author’s name becomes a form of cultural capital when associated with its works, and the relationship between work and author forms, ideally, a cohesive entity. Unfortunately for those who enjoy the definitive categorization of work and author, such is not the case.

The challenge, however, emerges when an incongruity within this entity becomes apparent. In writing history, pieces of information (like letters with contrary ideas, for instance) are simply ignored if they do not adhere to the already established image of the author. It has been pointed out multiple times that written history cannot be taken as absolute because of what has been omitted. In trying to keep the singular image of author and work united, historians have oversimplified the author as a person. There is a split, then, between the authors as persona and the author as person that cannot be reconciled.

This problem is not antiquated; it still exists in the form described, but there are also new ways in which this problem appears. A modern manifestation of this problem is visible in celebrities today. Like authors, movie stars create a genre for themselves that associates them with certain types of productions. Katherine Heigl has been branded as a romantic comedy actress, while Vin Diesel is automatically associated with action movies. Like the author, a movie star’s genre is not associated with his or her true self, but rather with the sum of the movie star’s work. If the aforementioned stars were to trade genres, the results would not be quite as well received because of the strangeness that comes with defying the established order.

This problem becomes more complex with advances in technology. In the past, it was much easier to suppress information that does not support the author’s image. If a historian encounters a letter from a branded “progressive” that contains explicitly racist sentiments, the historian could simply omit the letter, or frame the statements in such a way that would absolve the author within his or her historical context, thus maintaining the projected ideal. However, with more and more celebrity Twitters, there are fewer chances for someone to censor the author (or celebrity, in this case) as a person. There are some merits to the ability that technology has afforded for people to express themselves without censors. For example, talent that ordinarily would not be revealed to the world could have a worldwide audience in a matter of hours. But, as is more commonly the case, ignorance can be spread with the same, if not greater, velocity. The carefully constructed persona can be shattered almost instantaneously with something as extreme as a racial slur or as simple as a poor understanding of basic grammar. Once the author is able to interact directly with his or her audience, he or she is no longer a genre or sum of works.

The author is a person.

Is being a person necessarily a bad thing? As a person myself, I am inclined to believe that humanity is not a treacherous thing. And, while it is refreshing to be reminded that the shiny people onscreen are human, part of me still wishes to uphold the sense of mystery once associated with the stars. Call me idealistic, but I like to believe that the people who are in the public eye and making fortunes deserve to be there.

Yet, despite knowing that my youthful delusions can be dashed with one tweet about rapid bowel movements, I recently joined Twitter. From an outsider’s perspective, I saw Twitter as something frivolous. People vomit up mundane tidbits about their boring lives as they happen and other people eat that shit up. Even though nothing seems super important, there is this sense of urgency behind each insipid tweet. Everyone must know that I am eating a sandwich right now. It is necessary that everyone know that my poop is taking forever.

Since joining the dark side, I’ve been able to see things a little differently, especially as a writer. Having a character limit, not even a word limit, forces me to think about what it is I want to say, and how to convey that message most efficiently. Conversely, since each tweet only consists of 140 characters or less, it’s okay if what I say isn’t profound or earth shattering. Above all, Twitter has inspired me to simplify.

I’m not sure if this is a coincidence or not, but after joining Twitter, I began to simplify my life in other respects. I stopped wearing as much makeup. I cleaned out multiple boxes’ worth of clothing from my closet and gave them away. I even thinned out my Facebook page (which is a big deal). I think I realized, subconsciously, that I am in no way qualified to make grand, sweeping statements about the meaning of life. Painting my face a certain way or draping fabric around my body isn’t going to tell people who I am, but instead will offer a projection of how I want others to perceive me. And no one page is able to tell someone about every facet of my being.

So what can I do? I can offer little snippets of myself, and hopefully someone will be able to arrange those snippets into a more complete picture. I know that I’m going to have to shit out thousands of terrible pieces before I write something truly brilliant. This piece is probably one of those shit-thousands. But it’s better that I write little things, inconsequential as they may be, than nothing at all. Unless you think that this was a total waste of time. And maybe it was. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m a waste of time. Does it?

what do whiskey sours taste like?

2011-06-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

I was reading this fantastic article entitled “How To Drink Like Your Favorite Author” when, as expected, my mind wandered, though still tenuously tied to the original topic. Of course, I was thinking about how badass all of these authors were, but true to form, I steered my thoughts toward myself. I started thinking about fame. More specifically, about fame on the Internet, since that seems to be where all my efforts are focused at the moment.

Clearly, I am not an authority on fame. But I have been following several people’s trajectory toward fame on websites such as tumblr, YouTube, and general blogging sites, and I have a few thoughts.

The first step is establishing a presence. Before I started blogging, I had never written anything online before, at least not without trepidation. I rarely updated my Facebook status, never commented on any articles or videos, and used my Twitter account purely as a spectator, until I eventually deleted it after deeming it useless. But I came to terms with the fact that if I want my work to reach people, then I have to have a following. And to have a following, I have to produce some sort of content. And to have content, I have to do something. So I got over myself and started writing. But I still don’t leave very many comments, because Internet commenters can be viciously cruel towards each other. But I encourage you to comment here! I am nice and I want to hear what you have to say.

After establishing a presence, I’ve found that consistency is the key. The most successful people on the Internet crack out content daily, if not even more frequently. I used to be better at this step, but during the summer, not much happens to me, so I don’t have very many topics to discuss.

The linchpin of fame is ??? I really have no idea. Something about amassing a readership and hoping your content spreads like a cat video. I haven’t quite figured this step out yet, but I think it has to do with marketing? I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of this, seeing as my followers are primarily members of my family (who follow because they love me and are nice people).

Ah yes, and there’s the small qualification of actually being talented. I’ll let you know how that bit goes.

After all this contemplation, I have to wonder, what will people have to drink in order to drink like me, assuming that someday I may become someone’s favorite author? I guess it would have to be a White Russian, or, you know, a San Pellegrino. I can be a badass too.

sleep is for the weak. or, you know, the healthy.

2011-06-08T17:52:00.000-07:00

A conversation I had this morning with one of my favorite cousins reminded me that I have been neglecting this medium recently. Also, it makes me really happy when people don’t act surprised when they find out that I am capable of stringing words together to form coherent sentences. But that topic may be explored at a later time.

What I do want to focus on today is the neglect part of the above paragraph. I know how clichéd it is for a blogger to come back from a hiatus, mouth running with the typical “ehmagawd I’m soooo sorry but I’ve been like super busy and stuff and I was sick but I’m here now and I’m gonna be better than ever” then cease to blog, thus creating the endless cycle.

But I swear to you, I have been very busy. And I am now sick. And the previous paragraph will provide enough motivation for me to keep writing, because I am too damn proud for my own good.

Now that my disclaimer is out of the way, on with story time.

It is no secret that I am a hypochondriac. I suppose a weak immune system lends itself nicely to this little quirk of mine, as it results in minor, yet frequent ailments that feed my neuroses. The times when I find myself between ailments, I become hyperparanoid that anything out of the ordinary may or may not be the first symptom of my next ailment (never mind the fact that it is difficult to gauge what is ordinary when one is so often sick. I like to think of it as feeling nothing). And, no, self-awareness does not “cure” hypochondria. At least, not according to my personal experience, nor to the online search I just did on my phone.

So when I do actually become ill with more than the common cold, my paranoia takes on some very strange characteristics. Firstly, it is smug in that it is proven correct, even though it means that I am, in fact, sick. Secondly, and perhaps more logically, it is magnified at least tenfold.

Either in Manila or on the plane leaving Manila or from one of the airports, I managed to contract the stomach flu. I hate talking about the stomach flu, mostly because when people hear that I have it, they imagine me in a most unflattering way. But, as I am a mature adult grown-up, I will move past it. I am sick, and have been since Sunday. It happens to everyone.

Once it was established that I was so stricken, I began to freak out. I found myself wondering whether there were dietary rules that I was breaking because I was unaware of their existence, what the maximum distance between me and a restroom could be for an extended period of time, and what foods would be the least unpleasant coming up as going down.

Last night, during which I did not sleep at all, that anxiety contributed to my already weakened state. My only goal of the night was not to sully my sheets, so I focused all my energy on not moving my body, lest I upset either end. But quieting my movements did nothing to quiet my mind. I lay there, watching the sun gradually climb up my blinds like a ladder, mocking me with its cheery color. When I deemed it late enough (definitely before 7), I pawed pitifully at my mom’s bedroom door until she let me in. Once she left for work, I was finally able to feel the sweet release. No, not that kind. The sweet release of sleep.

Which is why I am posting this at about 6pm. I just woke up.

things i have discovered while trying to avoid work

2011-06-01T02:52:00.000-07:00

Procrastination can yield a multitude of things. Overwhelming feelings of frustration, restlessness, and bouts of self-criticism. But rather than focus on my shortcomings (which I have been doing for like five hours now), I will instead use this as a learning experience. Here are valuable lessons I have taken from today.

I can tie my hair in a knot and it will stay. Since my hair’s so long now, I can wind it in a bun and tuck the end under. Also, it’s really soft. Conditioner was a good investment.

I rock at mahjong. It’s probably because I’m an old woman. Or because of the saying, “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love.” That was a downer.

Taping a piece of tissue paper sprayed with baby cologne on the air conditioner gives the whole room added freshness. Unfortunately, this freshness is not conducive to my productivity. It makes me

want to sit in my chair with my eyes closed and simply breathe.

My godfather makes really really yummy French fries (Filipino fries?). I ate an entire bowlful, washed down with Four Seasons juice. My life is so hard right now.

I was a super cute baby. Legit though. Watching baby videos of myself is such a weird experience. Maybe I’ll write about it in the future. I also now know what I looked like when I pooped. And what my creepy alien voice sounded like.

Making faces at people until they notice is really fun. It’s a skill I’d like to hone in years to come. I consider myself an amateur at this point in time, but I hope to advance to a professional level. Best. Job. Ever.

quick fix

2011-05-31T04:45:00.000-07:00

Need to satiate your craving for [intelligence] but find that I haven't posted anything new? Curious about the quotidian (vocab word!) details of my life? Will you be satisfied with 140 characters or less?

Follow me on twitter here.

I promise that I won't tweet about poop.

Maybe.

questions i don't know how to answer

2011-05-28T18:55:00.000-07:00

I became aware that there are multiple ways to answer a question when I was in third grade. My teacher was sick, so a substitute filled in. Unfortunately, my teacher had been in the middle of reading a book aloud to the whole class, and had therefore left the substitute with the task of finishing it. When the sub asked for a volunteer to tell her what had happened thus far in the book to give her context for where were in the story, my hand shot up, practically propelling me out of my seat.

I should interrupt this story with an anecdote my mom loves to tell. When I was younger, she used to walk four miles a day and take me along with her. And I would talk to her the whole time. For those four miles, my mom would be subjected to my nonstop chatter about books I had read, juicy third-grade gossip, random thoughts that popped into my head. I would just talk and talk and talk. And she would listen, without telling me once to shut up. Or she would just tune me out. I know what I would have done.

So when the substitute asked me to tell her what had happened in the book, I thought she wanted me to tell her everything that was important to the plot (read: everything). Since the author had constructed such a delicate story, every detail was crucial, and therefore deserved to be told.

I must have talked for about twenty minutes (including reenacting all the dialogue) before the poor substitute teacher thanked me then asked someone else what had happened right before we left off.

I was heartbroken and humiliated, then realized that that was probably all she intended to hear, rather than my retelling of the entire novel. Since then, I have preferred to err on the side of too little than too much in conversation.

But back to the original point of this post. There are some questions that I just flat out don’t know how to answer. Questions like:

So what do you blog about? I’ve written on this subject before, but it still doesn’t get any easier to explain. I like to say “Nothing. But also everything.” except that I haven’t found a way to say that without feeling like a total douchebag. So, until I’ve figured that out, I’ll just resort to mumbling or changing the subject.

Are you having fun? If the person asked me whether or not I was having fun, wouldn’t it mean that something on my face conveyed otherwise? Although, my face looks bored a lot of the time, but the glazed-over look can be attributed more to me over-thinking any and all social interactions, and not necessarily to me wanting to leave. Also, even if I say that yes, I am having fun, I’m afraid that it sounds forced, especially when accompanied by a smile. Like I’m overcompensating for having a lazy face. Then, even when it isn’t a lie, it comes off as one. Likewise, “Are you excited about [whatever]?”

Do you care about the children/human rights/ animals? I hate this one. I’m walking down the street and a person with dreadlocks and a clipboard asks me a variation of this question. Saying no makes me out to be a heartless bitch. But saying yes means that I have to listen to this person stumble over some “ums” and explain the petition, culminating in asking me for a signature or some money. I even feel mean just writing that. Either way, I feel bad. I normally smile and say something along the lines of “Sorry, I’m in a rush!” then hurrying off. I still feel bad though.

You don’t have a boyfriend? Why not? The way I answer this question really depends on who asked. I might say something like “Because I don’t have time” or “Because I haven’t found anyone that I like” or something else noncommittal and vague, but a more accurate answer would be something like “Because I am too socially awkward to have a normal interaction with a guy, exacerbated by the fact that I go to a women’s college. Also, I consider man-repelling a sport. Do you want some old lady candy from the pocket of my grandpa cardigan?” It really depends on how uncomfortable I want to make the other person feel.

from my crooked heart

2011-05-27T00:20:00.001-07:00

I’ve written before about plurality and the issues that arise from it. If you don’t remember, and I don’t blame you if you don’t (I don’t even remember what I’ve written most of the time), I was wrestling with the fragmentation of my identity, and my inability to reconcile those distinct parts. In other words, I gots issues, yo.

The reason why I’m returning to this concept is that it has played an integral part in my negligence of this blog recently. Things have been really difficult recently in my personal life.

I responded as expected: I spent a lot of time contemplating life and writing. I wrote five blog posts in full explaining my thought and emotional processes in response to recent events. But, as you can probably tell, I didn’t publish a single one of them.

Why? I can already hear you asking. Just kidding. I don’t hear voices in my head.

I didn’t publish because I didn’t know what boundaries there are in having a blog. After waiting this long to post, especially with respect to what has happened, does there need to be pomp and circumstance in my return? Does there need to be a grand sweeping gesture in which I employ more poetry than prose in expressing myself? Or is it acceptable to do a post that is completely removed as an attempt to move forward?

Because of this uncertainty, the content of these posts were varied. Some contained emotion-filled recollections. Others were abstract interpretations of the way in which my brain copes. And one of them was about my inability to make commitments, exemplified in how I sleep: with most of my body under the covers, save for one leg.

Maybe these posts will be published sometime in the future. But maybe not. The folder of posts in my laptop has tons of unpublished and unfinished works. Every time I try to continue a post like that, though, I become inspired by something else and that new post takes precedence, pushing the other one further back in the queue. Maybe these posts will meet the same fate.

But I digress. My point is, I didn’t finish these posts because I let my work define me, instead of the other way around. I was so swept up in making sure I reacted in the correct way that I stifled any creativity.

Being self-conscious sucks. And if there’s anything I don’t want for my blog, it’s for it to suck. So from this point on, I am going to do my best to express myself fully, with as little censorship as possible. Also, I’m going to keep in mind that this is my blog. I shouldn’t have to worry about breaking any rules because I’m the one making them.

Yes, I’m still upset. But, as some women in my family have shown me recently, it’s important to stand your ground.

i should probably wash this shirt

2011-05-10T10:43:00.000-07:00

I wonder whether the face of triumph is always this unglamorous.

I turned in the last of my academic work for the semester at 2 am. For that moment in time, I was victorious. But that moment was short lived.

I could not go to sleep. I admit, my sleeping patterns are far from normal. But this morning, there was nothing I could do to remedy the situation.

So I watched documentaries on Netflix, caught up on some television (including an entire season of Sex and the City), and read some articles on some literary websites. I have no idea what insomniacs of the past did to pass the time. I suppose I could have read a book, but after the intellectual exhaustion of the past few weeks, I thought that I deserved a break. Besides, the only books I have in my room are for my classes, and there is no way in hell I was going to relive any academic moments from the semester. But hey, it could have been worse. I could have been watching reality television.

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. I know, it seems implausible, what with all the riveting entertainment at my disposal. But I think my body understood that sleep is a good thing, and therefore was being foolish for depriving me of it.

Unfortunately, I forgot to turn off my alarm. So here I am, sitting in bed as the grey light of morning slants through my open window, wondering what I am doing with my life. I’m wearing the same shirt I’ve been wearing for the past couple of days. My hair is all sorts of fucked up, and there are coffee cups and soda cans on my bedside table. All in all, I am a vision in black and white stripes.

I have poured my heart, soul, and brain into my work this semester. But all I have to show for it is a tired face and a listless body. What should be met with exuberant celebration is instead met with quiet, solitary contemplation.

I’d like to take this opportunity to bid farewell to the past semester. So long, awkward encounters in which I cannot see the other person until it’s too late to employ any diversionary tactics. Adieu, times when I leaned too far back in my desk chair and fell into my bookshelf, thanking any deity that would listen that no one else was in the room to see just how little of gravity I truly comprehend. Goodbye, moments of existential crisis during which I was rendered helpless by the sudden onslaught of self-doubt, only to lie catatonic in bed while pondering the possibility that this may be it for me.

I know that I have much to be thankful for about my time here. But tinted with the dull morning light, on very little rest (even for my standards), and under the influence of no caffeine, I cannot help being a little bit jaded.

I know things will get better. Later on, I’ll be happy about being done. But for now, I will lie here, rumpled up, and think. People say that their favorite part about summer is that they no longer have to think. That notion has always baffled me. I have never been able to escape.

on being emo

2011-04-26T00:36:00.000-07:00

I needed to take a breather after that last post. Far too much emotion for my comfort zone. I honestly have no idea where that outburst came from, but it did show me that I am not a very good writer when hysterical. Good to know.

Rather than bitch and moan about how much my life sucks right now (and trust me, it does), I am instead going to focus on something positive. Because nobody wants to read a shitty blog written by some emo kid.

When I’m feeling really depressed, I like to think about the sound of rain. Yes, I know that this notion sounds ridiculous, but bear with me.

I think about the sound of rain, pitter-pattering on my windowsill. Then, I imagine myself looking out of said window, gazing out at the muggy grey landscape without really seeing anything. The raindrops may pursue each other, racing down the glass hoping to merge with another, but I take no notice. Instead, I imagine myself completely absorbed in my lamentation. Maybe I am wrapped in nondescript, neutral-colored clothing. There may even be a hot beverage steaming up the windowpane in front of my face, obscuring my reflection.

Perhaps a solitary tear runs down my imaginary face. My imaginary countenance is nothing short of pathetic. One face cannot possibly hold so much emotion, no matter how furrowed my brow may be. I have hit rock bottom, found a pickaxe, and continued digging until I could no longer see the light of day. Everything is in black and white.

After I have established that mental image, I take a step back. I see myself, looking like a complete idiot, absolutely absorbed in my insignificant problems. Then I laugh. There is no way that I could take myself so seriously that I can pull off the described scene without an ounce of irony. I may be dramatic, but I am nowhere near that ridiculous. Nor am I the leading lady in a romantic comedy.

I know that this probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it is the easiest way to put things into perspective. Yes, it blows that I have to write so many papers. It sucks that my hands and arms are sore and cut up from bamboo (long story). It’ is unfortunate that I still haven’t completely recovered from my recent sickness. But I have not reached the point where the only logical thing to do is stare out my window and wallow in self-pity. I have already cried in public. I dealt with my emotions for once. Now it’s time for me to finish my espresso, hug Salvatore the unicorn, and buckle down.

P.S. This is precisely the reason why I cannot be a tortured artist. Nor can I talk about my "process" without being acutely aware that I sound like a douchebag. I usually just end up laughing.

on crying in public

2011-04-24T12:49:00.001-07:00

It takes a certain amount of desperation to cry in public. Crying in public requires that the crier in question hit rock bottom. Unfortunately for me, I reached that point today.

As you may know, today is Easter Sunday. Happy Easter!

Today was the first time I had to go to mass alone on Easter Sunday. I didn’t think it would be that big a deal, but for some reason, when I walked through the door and saw a bunch of people dressed in gaudy pastels, my heart broke. Not in the ostentatious, bursting into tears, messy way. Rather, seeing all these color-coordinated happy families reminded me that I was alone, and caused a slow implosion.

At first, I was just sad. I missed my family. I kept my composure and pretended to smile when the people next to me tried to start a friendly conversation. I don’t think I was as dazzling a conversationalist as I could have been, but I managed nonetheless.

Then, the girl sitting next to me started singing. Loudly. I think it’s great when people have the self-confidence to sing in public. But when the person is tone deaf, it becomes a little bit harder to keep a straight face. I found myself twisting my mouth into a contorted half-smile because, while I am a horrible person, I would not be able to laugh and forgive myself. So I kept it in. But then the sadness sunk in deeper when I realized there was no one around me to share my experience. There was no one to whom I could say later, “That girl had quite a voice.” Yes, I realize that I am mean, but today not only was I mean, but I was also alone. Around this time, my eyes started to water. The look on my face was probably a mix of extreme sadness and shock. I had not expected to have such a strong reaction to something so trivial.

Then during the homily, someone started snoring. Loudly. Again, it took all of my self-control not to laugh. Because of the high ceilings, the acoustics were impeccable. Unfortunately for the sleeping person, it meant that each inhalation resonated to the point where everyone was craning their necks trying to find the offending sleeper. Parents were scolding their children to stop laughing while trying not to laugh themselves. I stood there, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from running down my cheeks.

I barely made it outside the church before I succumbed to my overwhelming flood of emotions. That was easily the most emo sentence I have ever typed, and I will do my best never to do something like that again.

But yes, I cried, blubbering to my mom on the phone while speed-walking back to my dorm. At that point, it didn’t even matter that there were families holding hands around me. I didn’t care that some of my classmates were standing around with their significant others. I barely even saw the old couples looking at me with concern. All I wanted to do was cry. I know that I looked like a walking disaster and there was no hope of salvaging whatever dignity I had left.

I know that I’m going to be by myself in a foreign country in a matter of months. I will have to celebrate my birthday away from home for the first time. I’m going to have Thanksgiving by myself. There’s no way of knowing how I’ll react to reaching these milestones, but when the time comes, I will be better prepared. At least next time I’ll know that crying in public is a definite possibility.

Sorry for being so bleak. Enjoy Easter with people you love.

being sick is doing wonders for my writing. just kidding.

2011-04-21T23:02:00.000-07:00

There are many profound questions that I ask myself on a daily basis. What am I going to do with myself in the future? What is the meaning of life? And, most importantly, what is the proper way to sneeze?

I’ve been given many responses in my extensive time here on earth. But so far, none of them have been satisfactory.

The first option was never told to me; it was really more intuitive. I’m talking, of course, about the free-flying approach. In this scenario, the offending sneezer simply lets loose and releases the sneeze at its full 100mph without obstruction. This method is not socially acceptable because a] it is very loud, b] the accompanying facial expressions are never pretty, and c] people don’t like to have spit/snot flung in their faces. I learned pretty quickly that this choice would brand me a social pariah.

The next option is the catcher’s mitt. Instead of letting the sneeze particles run amuk, the offending sneezer may use his or her hand (or both hands, for the more advanced sneezer) as an attempt to “catch” the sneeze. Impeding the sneeze’s trajectory is a good idea, but the problem with these message emerges post-sneeze. What am I supposed to do with the spittle in my hands? Wipe them on something/someone? Close them awkwardly until I have the opportunity to wash them? This method only makes me ask more questions, so I can be sure that it is not the answer.

The catcher’s mitt can be modified to include a tissue, but there are a few problems with this option as well. For starters, I don’t always have tissues on hand. Also, like the original catcher’s mitt, using the modified catcher’s mitt creates new problems. What is the socially acceptable placement of the tissue post-sneeze? I know that a trash receptacle is ideal, but I do not have the luxury of always being surrounded by garbage cans. So what should I do? Hold it in my hand? Put in my purse or the pocket of my grandpa cardigan. I feel like, no matter what I choose, I am set up for failure and for feeling gross.

The method that I use the most appeals to me purely because of its name. I like to call this method the Dracula sneeze because it involves sneezing into the nook of one’s bent elbow, mimicking the way in which vampires peer seductively from behind their capes. Bonus points if you maintain sexy eye contact with someone while sneezing. Even though I use this method the most, I don’t think it’s necessarily effective. Sure, it keeps the hands spittle free. But I think of it as a glorified version of the first technique. Therefore, I still feel guilty about using it. But, since it is called the Dracula sneeze, I do it anyways. Resistance to the Dracula is futile.

i may not make sense

2011-04-20T14:59:00.001-07:00

Today is a bad day to be sick. I mean, every day is a bad day to be sick, but today is an especially bad day to be sick.

My first obstacle of the day was even getting out of bed. I have issues retaining body heat (as I write this, I can feel the coldness of my toes as they press against each other in my socks which are in my boots). My bed is warm, thanks to a fantastic heating pad and the warmth that I had generated and confined for the past couple of hours. Why would I want to leave such bliss?

Going outside was difficult as well. I could see out the window and everything just looked cold. Jeans, boots, wool socks, and about five layers on top. I even left my hair down in the hopes that it would keep my neck warm. Bag stocked with bootleg Vick’s and a roll of toilet paper because I ran out of tissue. I had to brace myself before leaving, but I did not adequately prepare.

Morning classes. I remember sitting and nodding, trying not to sit too close to anyone else for fear of infected them with my delightful ailment. I don’t even know what I have, but I do know that being horizontal sounds amazing. I also remember being judged for whipping out my bootleg Vick’s and putting some under my nose.

Work. I work in the basement of the library, digitizing and archiving original documents. Since everything around me is super old, the room has to be kept at a consistent balmy 50 degrees so nothing deteriorates. The only thing deteriorating in here is me and my mental (physical?) health. I would leave early, but my boss just informed me that she was giving me a raise, and it would probably reflect poorly on me if I had responded with a “kthxbai!” and left. So I am here, using my break to type up something that probably doesn’t make any sense but my hands are cold and I can’t breathe out of my nose.

I had dinner plans tonight, but it looks like I’m going to cancel and curl up in a ball. Oh wait, I have a paper due tomorrow and reading and other stuff, too. Guess I’ll be hunched over my laptop with a cup of tea and tissue rash.

I have reached the point where everything is moving slowly. Watching the seconds tick by on my laptop’s clock only highlight the slowness with which time is moving. When I sneeze, everything snaps back to attention, like in those crappy action movies where the shot goes into slow motion leading up to a punch, but then the punch is delivered all full speed. I bet my sneezes would look pretty epic if shot with the 300 filter.

But why is today an especially bad day to be sick? Because today is 4/20 and my eyes are red and watery and I’m far more lethargic than usual. Today is a bad day to be sick because it arouses suspicion from my professors and employers.

the champion

2011-04-19T22:51:00.000-07:00

I will admit to being extremely narcissistic. I’m a writer—self-absorption is practically in the job requirements. These posts don’t come out of nowhere. They involve quite a bit of unhealthy self-obsession.

I think that we’ve established that most people don’t think like me. And I’m okay with that fact. Someday I will find someone who finds my idiosyncrasies charming rather than terrifying. Unfortunately, I had deluded myself recently about someone liking me a little.

My college has a website on which people post missed connections. For example, a common post would say something like “Brunette guy in the dining hall:. I see you around campus all the time and you always smile at me. Maybe next time we run into each other on purpose.” You get the idea. People post on this website about attractive strangers that they are too afraid to speak to in real life.

I find this website oddly fascinating. Also, since I became aware of this site,like any normal human being, I have become even more self-conscious when I’m on campus (yes, it’s possible for me to be even more self-conscious). I never expected that I would be on this site, mostly because I never win anything.

I noticed this trend when I was in sixth grade. At the beginning of each math class, we would play a game called Krytpo. The teacher would randomly select five numbers, as well as a sixth “target” number. The goal was to use mathematical operations so that the five numbers equal the sixth. The first person to achieve this feat was the winner. For some reason, I really wanted to be the winner. There was no prize, and no real incentive for me to try, but I just wanted to be the one to shout “Krypto!” and be met with the jealous looks that I always shot at the winner. You’d think that I would win at least once during the schoolyear, but I did not. I realize that math is not my strong suit, but the laws of probability were on my side. I think. I may have calculated it wrong.

My point is, I never won. Nor have I ever won a raffle. Even though a guy that had a crush on me was operating the t-shirt gun, I have never caught a t-shirt at a sporting event. Granted, I couldn’t catch the shirt even though he shot it directly at me. He ended up just giving me one out of the box.

When I heard about LikeALittle, I knew that the chances of me being on the site were slim to none. There are a lot of people on this campus, and having a post about me on the site would involve someone actually noticing me. Yes, I realize that that last sentence was dark, but it’s how I feel and I’m allowed to write what I feel here. Plus it’s true.

Imagine my surprise when I read a post about a dark-haired girl with very long hair that eats lunch on Tuesdays at a specific dining hall at a specific time. I have dark hair that almost reaches my butt. I eat lunch on Tuesdays at the same place at the same time every week. I know that these characteristics are not the most distinctive, but a tiny bit of me hoped that my losing streak would be over. Could I have possibly won?

Today was the first Tuesday since that post. I decided to stick to my routine and carried on as usual. As expected, no one came up to talk to me. When I checked the site later, I saw that the author had updated about how he liked the girl’s blue shoes. I was wearing my brown grandma shoes (I know, I know, which ones?).

Even though I knew that there was next to no chance that the girl in the post was me, I was still a little bit sad when I knew for a fact that it wasn’t.

Finding out for sure that it wasn’t about me brought me back to my sixth grade math classroom, working frantically on something that really didn’t mean anything but nevertheless feeling disappointed when I lost.

Then I remembered that the premise of the website is kind of creepy and got over myself.

a toast

2011-04-18T13:10:00.000-07:00

Here’s to my mother, without whom my life would be completely different. Mostly because I wouldn’t be here.

Here’s to the woman who only laughed a little bit when I would run into things repeatedly as a small child (leaving things outside my door was a horrible idea because I would forget about them then fall over). She helped me understand that laughing makes the pain hurt a little bit less and having a positive attitude makes even the toughest adversity seem manageable.

Here’s to the entertainer who read my favorite books aloud to me over and over again, adopting different voices for each character and laughing hysterically along with me. She taught me the importance of performing to the best of my abilities, regardless of whether my audience was one person or one hundred.

Here’s to the savior who held my elbow when crossing the street because my nose would be buried in a book. She encouraged my love of reading, but also wanted to make sure I didn’t die because of it.

Here’s to the adventurer who went with me on my every whim. When I wanted to try a certain food because it was mentioned in a book I had read, she would help me find it (or at least recreate it to the best of our abilities). When I decided that I was going to audition for numerous plays and musicals, she would support me fully, even letting me try my songs or monologues in a nonjudgmental environment. When I told her that I was going to start writing daily, she promised that she would read every single entry. She nurtured my creativity in a such way that I can never be grateful enough.

Here’s to the champion that endured many a car ride with my smelly shin guards and dance shoes, despite her bloodhound-like nasal sensitivity. Also, here’s to the champ who persevered through my cello and trumpet years. She pushed me to pursue my interests, even though it involved sacrificing a little bit of her sanity.

Here’s to the ruler who was never a tyrant. She helped me realize that grades are important, but they are not the only thing that matters. When my peers talked about how they would be punished for my grades, I was shocked because I had never experienced anything like that. Instead of working out of fear, I worked out of self-motivation, and it was clearly an effective strategy.

Here’s to the trooper who put herself through law school while raising two children on her own. To this day, I have no idea how she managed. She showed me, firsthand, that it is possible to rise above and excel, expertly defeating every obstacle that stands between you and your dream. When people ask me about my personal hero, I immediately point to my mother. She may not have superhuman strength in the traditional sense, but I urge you to find something with more drive and determination.

Here’s to the counselor who was with me through physical and emotional injury. She understood my need to be strong, but she also reminded me that sometimes it’s okay to be vulnerable and rely on others. Not even a hero can be invincible all the time.

Here’s to you, mom. I love you so much and I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me. This one’s for you. Happy birthday.

suspicion

2011-04-17T18:26:00.000-07:00

I’m not paranoid. Am I?

The thing is, paranoia implies that the paranoid is delusion. By following this logic, then, it becomes clear that I am not paranoid. Because I know that my anxiety is completely warranted.

I’m talking, of course, about how animals are out to get me.

I tend to be a suspicious person by nature. I think part of the reason for this suspicion is because I know what goes on in my head, and it would be a cause for concern if similar processes are happening on someone else’s.

The thing with animals is that there is absolutely no way of knowing what they are thinking. I don’t even know how they think. I think in words. They may think in demon. I have no idea.

Maybe they can detect my suspicion, and therefore decide to take advantage of my natural jitteriness by confirming that suspicion.

The first incident that I recall of a belligerent animal occurred when I was about five. My mom, my sister, and I were in a supermarket, and being who we were, my sister and I wandered around, exploring the store in the hopes of finding something interesting. In all likelihood, it was candy. Or free samples. Or free samples of candy.

Somehow, we ended up in the fish section. There were live fish everywhere, but they were confined to tanks, so I was not concerned with them. However, there was a tank of live frogs at about my eye level. At this point in my life, I was not quite as cynical as I am today. I made eye contact with one of the frogs. I read quite a bit as a child, and had gotten it in my head that I could form a special bond with an animal and we would be able to communicate telepathically and be best friends forever. As I focused on the moist eyes of my new friend, I decided that not only was it possible to be intellectual best friends with a frog, but that it was literally happening before my very eyes. We understood each other. Or I thought we did.

The frog, however, had different plans. With an enormous ribbit, the little green shit leaped out of the tank toward me. My mother, who was across the store, came sprinting toward me because the scream I emitted resonated with such blood-curdling force that the frog fell back into the tank. Needless to say, friendship terminated.

Following that traumatic experience, I have never again tried to forge a relationship with an animal. I decided then and there that, to avoid getting hurt, I would remove myself completely. To this day, I remain obstinate in my suspicious ways.

Over time, certain animals have gained my trust. But I will never trust a squirrel.

adulthood, revisited

2011-04-15T12:30:00.000-07:00

I mentioned in a recent post that I don’t think of myself as an adult. Upon further reflection, I believe I have pinpointed the root of the problem. I have simply skipped over that phase of my life, and now exist simultaneously as an adolescent and an 87-year-old woman.

The similarities are striking. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence. Slouchy cardigans are an easy, comfy way to clothe my body without having to resort to sweatshirts and sweatpants (or no pants). And sometimes keeping my hair in a topknot is a practical way to avoid distracting myself when I need to get work done. My hair is really soft.

But, as I was looking in my closet, I realized that the similarities between old people and me do not end there. I own an excessive amount of high-waisted things. Shorts, skirts, offensive jeans. You name it, it’s probably in my closet or giving me polterwang like whoa.

Then I looked at my shoes. I wear shoes that look like this:

I think this picture speaks for itself.

Then I thought about my habits. I usually wake up at an ungodly hour, simply because I cannot sleep. More often than not, I wake up before my 7 am alarm and get shit done. Reading, writing, the odd tidying up. I realize that this practice probably drives my roommate nuts, but at least I shut my alarm off before it actually wakes anyone. I also understand that waking up early is not necessarily unique for a person with an actual job and real responsibilities, but I am a college student whose first class is not generally until around 10.

I eat lunch at 11:15 and dinner at 4:45. These times just happen to be when the dining hall opens, but I have trained my stomach to be hungry at these times, much like those who have several decades on me. I figure, since the food is available, I may as well eat it as soon as possible. Plus, no one else really eats at those times, which means less lines!

Then I looked in my bag.

First of all, it should be noted that the bag in question (though not pictured) is vintage. As in an old lady would probably consider it contemporary. It’s a vicious cycle.

Anyways, the contents of my bag (minus an inexplicable amount of pens) include hand cream that smells suspiciously like old people, a generic red lollipop, bootleg Vicks VapoRub, a pack of tissues with a kicky denim design, my glasses, and about a metric ton of Werther’s Original Hard Candies. If someone tried to attack me, I would probably resort to whacking said person over the head with my bag. There would be a shiny shower of gilded candy wrappers to distract my assailant as I fled the scene.

Not that I don't enjoy being young. I love having the youthful energy to stay up during all hours of the night and still be somewhat functional the next day. I love running around and wearing what I want and doing what I want and knowing that it's okay because I'm young and don't know better yet. I love that the mistakes I make are learning experiences and do not carry the gravity that mistakes made later will have.

But at the same time, there are certain aspects of being older than I cannot wait to experience for myself. I want to have concrete accomplishments that I can look at and feel proud to have done something that matters. I want to be able to wear what I want and to do what I want because I've lived long enough to know that what matters is that I make myself happy. I want to have the self-assurance that comes with lived experience.

I wish I could skip over the messy middle part of figuring everything out. But in the meanwhile, I'll live in my suspended reality, wearing my offensive jeans, eating my hard candies with Red Bull, and displaying the dark circles under my eyes unapologetically.

i need help

2011-04-14T16:01:00.001-07:00

I am well aware that I have a few annoying habits. No one is perfect, and under no circumstances would I consider myself to be as such.

My professor just said, “I have my own neuroses to deal with. I don’t concentrate on what other people are doing.” I laughed out loud. People are staring. Back to pretending to take copious amounts of notes.

Anyways, I understand that I have idiosyncrasies that drive people nuts. I clear my throat with such force that I often startle those around me. I suppose this jarring noise is not extreme enough, because people who know me usually respond with a pithy, “You’re pretty” if they respond at all. Most people I know don’t even notice it anymore.

But, when I do it around people with whom I don’t spend as much time, I am usually met with scolding, or, if done abruptly, colorful phrases indicating their surprise.

I know that I should probably stop. And I will. Eventually.

This topic crossed my mind because of an event that occurred just a few minutes ago. My professor, while ranting about something or other, used the word albeit. Normally, I love this word. Words like albeit and hence make me happy because I don’t think they receive enough attention. However, he pronounced it “al-BAY-it.”

If you hadn’t guessed by now, the mispronunciation triggered a habit of mine. First, I completely tuned out whatever words followed albeit. I heard the way he pronounced it in my mind, then scanned the vault of my mind to hear any other time I have heard anyone pronounce it. I find myself mouthing or even whispering albeit to myself. Then, just to give my professor the benefit of the doubt, I google the correct pronunciation. He’s wrong. I knew it.

I know I need to stop. Not only does this habit make me an awful person, but it also makes me look crazy. I’m sitting by myself, fixated on a word to the point of whispering it to myself. I wish there were some sort of corrective behavior strategy I could implement on myself besides willpower.

on why i cannot possibly be an adult at this point in time

2011-04-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

Today marks a milestone in my extensive time here on earth. As of today, I am officially declared in my field of study. That means that I am one step closer to graduation. One step closer to living in the real world. One step closer to being an adult.

Then I realized that, technically, I am an adult. Legally, at least. But in my experience, I think that I would be lying if I said that I am an actual adult. While I’m not sure what exactly constitutes adulthood, I can list a few attributes that I possess that exclude me from that category.

• When I experience hunger pangs in the middle of the night and realize that I have no readily available food (aka something that I can instantly nom without having to prepare anything), I resort to eating whatever I can scavenge. Even though there is a vending machine downstairs fully stocked with goodies, and even though there is ramen that only requires boiling water to make, I choose the easiest option. Which is why, more often that not, my roommate finds me huddled in a corner, face illuminated by my laptop screen, eating raw ramen noodles like chips. Also, when I do actually find chips, I eat them with such impatience that I usually end up with cuts on the corners of my lips and roof of my mouth.

• I have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy. There is a chemistry professor named Poon. Every time I hear his name, I laugh. Ditto humpday. Or anything scatological.

• As previously mentioned, I have an aversion to wearing pants. In addition, I have a penchant for redefining the boundaries of fashion. And by that I mean that I tend to wear the shirt in which I slept the next day. Personally, I don’t see any issues with this habit, but apparently it’s weird.

• I have never been able to drink eight glasses of water a day. I’m not sure why this tidbit of information is relevant to this post or if it even makes sense. But, for whatever reason, I imagine that adults are very good at hydrating themselves. Also, I don’t moisturize nearly as much as I should.

• I apologize incessantly. Even when I know that something isn’t my fault, I will apologize anyway. A girl legit stomped on my toes at a party, and I was the one apologizing for being in her way (even though I know I wasn’t. She was drunk.). I thought that being an adult would make me more commanding, or at the very least make me more assertive.

• On that note, I still have issues asking for things. I know that, as an individual, I have the right to want things, and to pursue those wishes. But being around other people who seem to know what they want to an extent that I don’t makes me retreat to my custom of wishful thinking and self-loathing.

• If given a choice between a mature, grown up salad and a strawberry iced poptart, I will always choose the poptart.

blind leading the blind

2011-04-11T21:39:00.000-07:00

I think I need new glasses. I realized my vision was slowly deteriorating when, despite wearing my glasses at the time, I found myself squinting while taking a vision test for my study abroad physical. At first, I attributed this failure to the fluorescent lighting and the fact that it was 8 a.m., but upon further reflection, I am more inclined to believe that my eyes are at fault. I mean, I could still see, but it took a lot more effort on my part than I think was necessary.

My point is, I can still see when I’m in class. Besides, since most of my classes are discussion-based seminars, it’s not like there’s anything written on the board that is crucial to my passing the class.

I’d like to take a moment of silence to thank heaven that I am neither a math nor science major.

The most pressing reason why I need new glasses is my inability to recognize people. For some reason, this campus is incredibly friendly. People smile at each other when they pass, regardless of whether or not the other person is a total stranger. I think that the combination of sunshine, fragrant orange trees, and overwhelming politeness makes not saying hi to random people weird.

The problem is, since I can’t tell who someone is until it is potentially too late, I find myself in awkward situations where my level of salutation is inappropriate.

For instance, if I can make out the hazy shape of a smiling mouth on an oncoming passerby, I will reciprocate the greeting. But, since I am still unsure of the person’s identity, I will do so with some hesitation and plenty of awkwardness. If that person happens to be a friend, he or she will tease me, asking why I’m being weird and/or cold. I apologize and blame my eyesight, then slouch off, avoiding eye contact with anyone else lest I make the same mistake. If someone recognizes me, he or she can call my name and I’ll respond. But, sometimes when people yell “okay,” I mishear it as a nickname, then even more awkwardness ensues.

However, sometimes the opposite of the aforementioned situation occurs. If I’m feeling especially brave (or stupid), I will keep my head up while walking around. If I vaguely recognize someone’s form, I will get excited. Perhaps my lack of friends in high school has left indelible marks on my psyche, but whenever I see a friend on campus, I get really excited. Despite popular opinion, I’m not completely dumb. I like to think logically about whether or not the blur in the distance could be someone I know. After studying general characteristics (approximate height and weight, hair color, manner of walking, etc.), I think about the probability that this person could be a friend of mine. Does my friend own that shirt? Does my friend carry a bag like that? Is my friend in class right now? If the answers to those question match the description of my friend, I will commit to making contact. Usually, I do so vocally with a cheery salutation.

More often than not, I’m wrong. The person walking toward me just happens to bear a striking resemblance to a friend, and there is no turning back. I usually just sport a sheepish smile or shrug then scurry off.

But that’s not even the most terrifying encounters I have when rendered blind. One on one interactions while passing by someone are tolerable. Sure, they can be embarrassing, but they could also be attributed to the friendly atmosphere that this school fosters.

But nothing strikes so much fear in my heart as meals in the dining hall. First of all, my senses are overloaded with smells and sounds, let alone sights. Also, I am usually ravenous by mealtimes, so I’m not really focused on recognizing people.

I’m not sure whether people can sense my vulnerability, but whenever I’m in the dining hall, I feel like I’m being ambushed. That guy who asked me for my number last weekend and was confused when I awkwardly declined and scuttled off? Of course he sees me. That random girl that sat next to me in a class last semester with whom I haven’t exchanged more than five words? Small talk! My friend’s ex who turned out to be a huge douche? Eye contact and mutual recognition.

I feel like I’m at a huge disadvantage here. I need to be prepared so I can defeat awkwardness once and for all.

i should never be allowed near prospective students

2011-04-10T22:54:00.000-07:00

This week has been incredibly stressful. I’m writing three papers simultaneously (none of which are completed at this point), and the readings for my classes have been piling up like whoa. I don’t understand why writing has been so hard. I can churn out a thousand words in an hour or so, but for some reason, these papers have been incredibly difficult. Premature senioritis? Possibly. But I’d put money on general laziness at this point.

As a much needed break, I went to dinner with my friends. As I was walking to my friends’ dorm to meet up, head in a fog as usual, I suddenly found myself swimming upstream. A horde of prospective students was walking in the opposite direction, and I was unwittingly caught in the middle, disoriented and hungry. I had forgotten that this weekend, tons of admitted students would be roaming the campus, scoping out whether or not they would be willing to spend the next four years here. Instead of fighting to advance toward my destination, I gave up and stood still, occasionally picking up fragments of conversations about hometowns and other schooling options (“Yeah, I was accepted to every school I applied to. But this place is really pretty.” etc.).

I happen to be in love with my school, so when I hear people bragging about the other schools they could have attended, I become a bit defensive. Amazingly enough, I kept my mouth shut and instead shook my head at the way the prospies were trying so hard to impress each other.

But my intolerance of arrogance is not why I shouldn’t be around prospective students. I mean, it’s a good reason, but it’s not the only one. As I mentioned before, I love my school. Maybe a little bit too much.

When I meet a prospective student, my primary objective is to make her love the school as much as I do. When a prospie stops me to ask for directions, more often than not I stop whatever I am doing and walk her to where she needs to go, emphatically talking about how much I love it here. I probably sport the crazy eyes and maniacal smile whilst conducting these impromptu tours. Scratch that. I definitely sport the crazy eyes and maniacal smile whilst conducting these impromptu tours.

I go into hyper friendly mode. It’s as though I am involuntarily compensating for all my antisocial tendencies at once. I become terrifyingly chipper. And smiling that much hurts my face.

I wish I could say that it’s possible for me to avoid contact with prospective students so I won’t scare them away. Unfortunately, one of my best friends happens to be the new student coordinator, so my contact with prospies is inevitable.

YOUSHOULDCOMEHEREITSAMAZINGANDIMSSOHAPPYANDLOOKHOWPRETTYTHEBUILDINGSAREISNTTHEFOODDELICIOUS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

i will never be able to

2011-04-07T12:49:00.001-07:00

• Be a crazy cat lady. I’m allergic to the point where my eyes water and my throat closes up. I guess I could still potentially be a dead crazy cat lady whose cats have eaten her face. I do still want a pet tiger, so I need to do some extensive googling to determine whether that’s still a possibility. I hope it is. I love tigers.
• Be a Rockette. I don’t fit the height requirement. Because that’s the only obstacle. It’s also why I’ve never won America’s Next Top Model.
• Be good at being mad. As I have mentioned before, I can never keep the angry momentum going long enough to sustain those feelings. I’m terrible at giving people the silent treatment simply because I like to talk.
• Understand the appeal of Claire Danes. Sorry.
• Be a princess at Disneyland. I would really like to, but, in all honesty, which one could I be? Unless a Disney movie about a mestiza princess comes out in the near future, I’m screwed.
• Eat pesto. Unless it was made without pine nuts. But then it wouldn’t really be pesto.
• Keep a manicure for more than four days. It’s usually either an index finger or a thumb that chips first. And, being who I am, I can’t have one imperfect nail. Even though I know it’s horrible for my nails, I proceed to peel off the remaining polish for the sake of consistency. Also, I bore really easily, so once I grow tired of one color, I switch to another. Right now, my nails are bright blue with a black shatter topcoat. Pretty awesome, I know.
• Comment on an online forum. Seeing the volatile ways in which people respond to other commenters scares me into keeping my thoughts to myself. A lot of people use their relative anonymity online as a cloak behind which they can act like assholes. It doesn’t work that way.
• Be able to look at a rusty spoon and not think of Salad Fingers.
• Eat cotton candy without crazy eyes. Or sugar shakes.
• Talk about Fight Club. Oops.

i am the ultimate party animal

2011-04-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

People tell me that I’m smart and funny. Sometimes, I even believe them. Then I go to a large social gathering and realize that they were lying to me all this time.

It was my friend’s birthday recently, so we had a small get together, complete with cake and general happiness. There were people there with whom I was very familiar, but there were also some of her friends with whom I was not as well acquainted. People she knew from her classes or friends who were not necessarily part of our core group of friends but still knew.

I realize that at this point I sound like one of those cliquey girls in Mean Girls (you can’t sit with us!), but I promise you I’m not like that. It’s not as though we have vicious three-way calling attacks or rules like wearing pink on Wednesdays. The only rule we strictly enforce is to keep lids on liquids, but that’s just because it makes sense.

After we had sung and she had semi-successfully blown out the trick candles, we were all sitting (or laying, in some cases) on the floor, absolutely stuffed with what might be the densest chocolate cake I have ever encountered. Since there was no more ceremony to which we had to attend, we began to engage in conversation. Please note that I use the word “we” lightly.

Someone started telling a hilarious story about her childhood, triggering a procession of people telling stories with the hopes of topping the previous one. It may have been the cake, or the stories about awkward pee situations, but everyone was laughing, fully engrossed in the moment.

The only thing I could think of while this was happening was, whenever I was having a conversation with someone, whether the other person was actually listening to what I had to say or was instead thinking about the next thing he or she wanted to say. Maybe it’s just me, but whenever I talk to other people, I find the conversation veering in the direction of the other person until it comes to them talking and me nodding and occasionally interjecting a “yeah” here and there.

Normally, I’d be right there with my friends, laughing until tears were streaming down my cheeks. But that day I wondered what would happen if I didn’t engage. If I didn’t buy into what was expected of me and tell a self-deprecating story about what a strange child I was (am?). Maybe I was feeling tired. Maybe I didn’t have a relevant story. Maybe I didn’t want to have to entertain people I didn’t know.

But instead of grasping at any story I had in an attempt to make people laugh, I sat. I listened. Peer pressure was not going to get the best of me.

I would normally have some sort of observation around this point in the post, but I don’t really have anything to contribute. People in social situations are strange creatures indeed.

stomach

2011-04-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

I decided to give the random word generator another chance. This beautiful weather inspires a sense of mercy in me, I suppose. Or I really don’t want to do my reading. Either way, the word generator has been given a shot at redemption. Here’s hoping it doesn’t screw it up.

Stomach.

Okay.

I could talk about body image. I could talk about cows. Really, I could talk about anything even tenuously related to stomachs. But I won’t. Because I have been inspired. Word generator, you have done your job, but not exactly the way you should have.

In-class essays have always been a source of anxiety for me. I enjoy writing, and do it as often as I can, but I am always afraid I’ll choke under pressure. I am currently enrolled in a class this semester that begins every session with an in-class essay, so there is plenty of opportunity for me to have a breakdown. Maybe my rebellious side will take over and my mind will refuse to function simply because it doesn’t like being told what to do. Perchance my hand will finally surrender itself to a long overdue case of carpal tunnel. Maybe I will legitimately have no idea how to answer the prompt, even with the assistance of my bullshitting skills.

While the previous scenarios may very well happen someday, what usually happens is this: I think of a great way to answer the question. I think of eloquent ways to phrase my points. I even think of words that I will want to include, simply because I can. Words like “facetious” and “cornucopia.” My favorite pen makes contact with the page and I begin to write. It’s going well, until I make my first mistake. When I write with this much concentration, especially while the wheels in my head are turning so quickly, words string together. “With the” becomes “withe” and I have to whip out my trusty correcting tape. I correct the error, try to ignore the fact that the ink on the correcting tape is a slightly different color than the ink on the actual paper, and continue to answer the prompt.

But the rhythm is broken. I remember the time limit. I spew out a string of seemingly relevant words, but my hand isn’t moving at the same speed as my mind and I become frustrated as it lags behind. As if it could hear my thought process, my hand cramps with defiance. No amount of flailing will help. Not that I would flail in the middle of my class anyways. At least, not in a way that would call attention to myself.

Luckily, I finish just in time. I feel pretty confident about what I have done. Plus, there’s nothing I can do anymore, so I hand my paper to the person sitting next to me. She has filled up double the space I have on the sheet. True, my handwriting is very small. And she just crossed out her mistakes instead of covering them up completely. Those mistakes could account for the additional space used up.

Rather than freak out, I convince myself that I just happened to be more concise than her. I was probably more efficient at presenting my logic than she was with hers. I know that I wrote everything that was necessary. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with my work. Besides, it’s not the length that matters, but the content. Am I right?

Not to be crude, but if this is what insecurity regarding size feels like, then I understand, gentlemen. Sorry for making fun of you.

Also, sorry this post has almost nothing to do with stomachs.

vaguely indicative title

2011-04-04T12:50:00.001-07:00

First sentence that hooks the reader. Can be funny, outlandish, or actually relevant to the rest of the piece. It depends. Follow up sentence that qualifies the first and adds new information that draws the reader in deeper. A statement that indicates what information will be revealed, possibly hinting at an epiphany near the end. The reader now has the decision to continue reading or move on to something else (Facebook).

Statement that the writer is aware that the subject is not applicable to everyone, or qualifying statement that the writer understands the contrary point of view to her own. The writer relates her point of view.

Background information about the author to put the first paragraph into context. Inclusion of a personality quirk or thought process specific to the author that could potentially give the reader a better understanding of why the writer thinks the way she thinks. This portion may or may not be immediately relevant to the piece, but the writer promises that it will be.

Beginning of anecdote that will explain the hook from the first paragraph. Retelling of a story that indicates an experience unique to the writer. Paragraph composed of long sentences with multiple clauses alternated with short sentences. For emphasis. Continuation of story with increasing momentum and tension as the writer builds the intensity.

Sentence about the climax of the story, preferably beginning with a conjunction.

Explanation of why the writer acted the way she did in the given scenario. This is where the background information becomes relevant. If the reader remembered the idiosyncrasy, then he or she is already ahead of the game. But, the writer will take it upon herself to explain it again, just to ensure clarity.

The writer tries to make the reader understand her thought process, and therefore frames this portion in such a way that her mode of thinking appears to be the most logical. More sentences to prove that the writer is a functioning member of society and not a crazed young woman with a laptop. She may or may not succeed at this point.

Hyperbolic statement about how normal the writer is. The reader should at this point realize that the writer is not typical, nor does she wish to be acknowledged as such.

Solitary, often bleak, statement about the writer’s observations about the given scenario.

irreconcilable differences

2011-04-02T20:01:00.000-07:00

While sitting through yet another shift at the library, my mind wandered to thought about plurality. More specifically, I began to think about the plurality of identities in a single person.

As an added layer of complexity, imagine the word “plural” spoken with a Swedish accent. Because I always do.

Strangely enough, writing makes me think about things. Weird, right? Since I posted about it, I can’t help but think about my reluctance to classify things. First, I thought about how stereotypically douchey it sounds when people say they “hate labels.” No wonder other generations are frustrated with mine.

But, as I am a product of a time and place, is it inevitable that some ideologies, no matter how vapid, will be transferred to my consciousness. I suppose the best thing for me to do at this point is recognize that self-obsession, and try to begin to understand the logic (if there is any) behind it.

I mentioned that there is a distinctly American philosophy that everyone is special, and categorization takes away from that uniqueness. Standardization glosses over the nuances that make people who they are. I still stand by that statement. But to pinpoint the precise problem, I think that it is important to think about what makes a person unique.

This is where the plurality kicks in. I think that much of my generation’s aversion to labeling comes from an inability to reconcile, or even recognize, the multiple identities that reside in a single person. Plurality, in my experience anyways, comes from fragmentation, and I often wonder how in-depth I should go to explain this fragmentation in a way that doesn’t seem quite so labored.

In the true fashion of my generation, I am going to use myself as an area of study. It is the most accessible subject, and I daresay I understand myself more than I understand other people.

Also, being who I am, I am going to analyze this fragmentation with respect to my writing.

I have neglected posting for the past few days. It’s hard to articulate why exactly. The closest word I can think of to express my feelings is inadequacy.

At the manifest level, I mean it in the most literal sense of the word. I find myself wanting to write, but not believing in my execution. Maybe my inspiration isn’t strong enough. Maybe I don’t have the emotional sophistication to walk the fine line between angsty bitching and sardonic observation when writing about real issues. Maybe it was idealistic of me to think that writing every day would somehow contribute to my betterment.

Whatever the truth may be, I have five or six documents open on my laptop, each in some state of incompletion. I physically cannot bring myself to finish, so I begin another with the hope that the next one will fare better. I guess I didn’t realize how invested I am in this project until I found myself unable to participate.

But the inadequacy stems from a deeper place. I was talking to a friend of mine, and he asked whether my writing changes when I know that someone in particular is going to read it.

I hadn’t put that much thought into it (surprising, coming from the girl who overthinks everything, I know). But he did bring up a valid point. It does change. There are certain things that I cannot, will not, share with certain people, and once the subject is broadcast for public consumption, there is no way I can control who reads it.

If you were wondering where the notion of plurality becomes relevant again, it’s here.

I suppose the reason plurality has been so heavily on my mind has much to do with my background. Both of my parents immigrated to America, so calling myself American feels weird, like I am disregarding history. Racial identity, too, is a nightmare. I’m not purely one race, I’m not technically biracial, and I have semantic issues with the term “hapa” because it implies halving, and my racial divide is not split down the middle. If forced to choose, I will consider myself Asian, but it will probably always feel like a lie. It is precisely because of these reasons that I have never really aligned myself with any racial identification groups at any of my schools.

But this fragmentation materializes when it comes to my writing. As I previously mentioned, my voice changes depending on my intended audience. I keep parts of myself distinct and only call upon certain elements when appropriate. I suppose this is true of everyone. And I understand that it is a problem. But it has never been so apparent as it is now, as I sit here in front of my laptop, trying to articulate my thoughts without losing anyone.

There’s no way I can talk about romance here. Nor religion. Nor race (minus what I already have, but I felt like a concrete example was necessary). I just can’t.

Maybe someday I will break these rules. I wonder if, in the future, I will be able to write freely. But I cannot. Not right now. My inability to reconcile the fragmented parts of myself prevents that freedom. For now, I’ll settle with censoring myself. Even though it feels like I’m lying a little bit each day.

But then I started to think even more about censorship. The very act of writing, regardless of intent, inevitably involves censorship. A writer’s brain is a censor. I choose my words very carefully. Despite the frequency with which there are typographical errors in my work, I swear I edit. I cannot escape.

Then I started thinking about free will in general and subsequently bummed myself out. Maybe I should stick with lighter topics for now. Since I can’t reconcile my fragmented identity, I can work within the space I have created for myself, gradually expanding until my whole mess of self fits. And I will get there. Eventually.

social experiment: drunkenness and vampire fangs

2011-03-30T22:02:00.000-07:00

*Please note that I will not be intoxicated for the duration of the social experiment. I am underage. Plus, I might end up biting myself with fangs and that would hurt.

Today’s post is a little bit different in that it will be presented in two parts. As you can probably tell by the title, I’m going to do a little social experiment. I’ve been flirting with this idea for a while, and today I have finally collected enough courage to execute it. I’m talking about wearing fangs. In public.

I should probably explain. I got the fangs for a Halloween costume, so they are customized to my mouth and look pretty realistic, if I do say so myself. This week is rush week at my school, which means that the fraternities are throwing huge parties for the new members. Being who I am, I cannot let this opportunity for social experimentation go to waste.

I plan on looking as normal as possible. Sure, I’m slightly paler than your average human being, but that can’t be helped. It can only help my cause at this point. I’m going to go out looking like this:

Pretty normal, right? But, little will people suspect that brewing under this calm exterior lay these bad boys:

I will get back to you with my findings tomorrow. Can you wait? Neither can I.

*EDIT: I will be conducting this experiment at a later time, preferably one with greater visibility and less of a chance that I will be elbowed in the face and inadvertently swallow a fang. It's for my own safety. Plus a vampire in the daylight may cause more panic.

now i am actually curious about my facial expressions during conversations

2011-03-30T00:44:00.000-07:00

Today, my blog came up in conversation. The other person was curious about my writing compulsion, and when I mentioned that I write a little bit each day, he asked, “What do you write about?”

Despite my overwhelming urge to correct his grammar so that his question didn’t end with a preposition (an urge that, by the way, drives all my friends crazy. At this point, I wonder how I have friends), I found myself at a loss for words.

The feeling I had was unsettlingly familiar to my initial response to the prompt “How would you describe yourself?” What am I actually doing here? Does it count as comedy? Creative writing? How long can I get away with not saying anything before this situation gets awkward and he wonders what’s wrong with me? What does my face look like at this point in time?

In the end, I noncommittally mumbled something about how I don’t really write about anything, or about a lot of stuff, or something else equally vague. I couldn’t think of anything witty to say, otherwise I would have distracted him with sarcasm and steered the conversation elsewhere. Based on his confused expression, I doubt I conveyed my thoughts very eloquently at all. I justified my writing by explaining that I want to keep myself in practice, and I also enjoy doing so, and it seemed to placate his confusion. But after this exchange, I was removed from the conversation. I wonder if he noticed.

Anyways, my inability to label my writing (and in extension, myself) was confusing. True, I’m not sure how to define my often-maniacal musings. Classification is tricky, even with a mnemonic. But attempting to explain my work was, for lack of a better word, weird. Like I was giving away a part of myself that I wasn’t ready to share. It was in this moment that I realized how personal writing is for me. I mean, I knew before, but I had no idea that my sensitivity reached this extent.

Another thing I noticed was my aversion to a concrete label. As you can probably tell, I don’t really like being confined. I think that people are far too complex to be put into neat little boxes. Doing so does everyone involved a great disservice in understanding the other. In sum, oversimplification sucks.

But the distinctly American school of thought that everyone is special has heavily influenced my way of thinking. By labeling, I feel like I am somehow cheating myself and the other person with the omission of certain details. Then I remembered that not everyone thinks like me, and not everyone cares either.

I didn’t say any of these things aloud, but nevertheless, he concluded our conversation by mentioning that I would be a fascinating subject for psychoanalysis. Was it so obvious that there was a storm brewing in my head? Whatever. It has always been an aspiration of mine to be a guinea pig.

next to normal

2011-03-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

Have you ever gotten to a point in your life where you wonder whether or not you are actually crazy?

What happened to me today certainly was not quite that dramatic, but it did force me to question my ability to determine what is socially acceptable.

It happened in my cultural studies seminar. The girl that sits next to me is an acquaintance of mine, so I thought on some level she understood my neuroses. Especially considering that she lived pretty close to me my freshman year, so she has seen me in action when she visited my room.

She had forgotten to bring the reading for today’s session, so she asked to look on with me. I said yes, of course. There have been times when I forgot to print out the reading, but being too shy to inconvenience anyone else, would pretend that it was in my binder, or even pretend that I had taken copious amounts of reading notes and was editing them in class. I didn’t want someone else to suffer like that.

I moved my papers between the two of us (but still slightly closer to me, just to establish boundaries) and we both leaned in to follow along as the professor pointed out a particular passage. I should also note at this time that I print these documents with multiple pages on one printed page so that they end up looking like this:

I always feel horrible printing out fiftyish-page readings, and adjusting the images and printing double-sided helps alleviate that guilt, even though it's at the expense of my already rapidly deteriorating eyesight.

This particular reading was confusing, so my copy was mainly marked up with underlines and question marks in the margins so that I would remember to bring things up in class. Other pages were blank, simply because I wasn’t sure what exactly I should take away from those passages.

As we were following along, she turned to the next page. I already thought that was crossing the boundaries I had established, but I let it go. Mostly because I am aware of my personal space issues and I know that they are weird. But she kept turning the pages to look, superficially, at all of the pages. She then turned to me and said, “(snort of derision) Nice notes.”

In a defensive panic, I tapped my notebook and made writing gestures with my index finger, indicating that I had taken reading notes (which I had, except that they were mostly quotes of text followed by phrases of confusion). She looked unconvinced, so I put my head down and feigned being incredibly interested in the reading before me. But all I could see was the reason for my shame.

As I sat there half-listening, I started to think about the interaction. She was inconveniencing me, yet had the audacity to judge me. I mean, she didn’t even have her reading. I would never judge someone based on how annotated their readings are, and even if I were to judge someone, I certainly wouldn’t vocalize the judgment. And I have seen people write stupid stuff in the margins of their books. I bought a used book for a class in which, unbeknownst to me or I would not have bought it, someone had written “metaphor” next to every single metaphor in the novel. It drove me nuts.

Besides, I judge myself more than enough. I do not need help from other people.

But what struck me was how quickly I went into defensive mode, deciding in that split second that I had to prove myself to her. In addition, I automatically assumed a submissive position, even though I should have been in a position of power. I, after all, had the reading. Somehow, I had absorbed all the blame for what had just happened, even though I understood that she was being rude to me.

The problem, therefore was not with me at all, but lay with her. More specifically, it lay with her failure to recognize that she was being inconsiderate.

Later on during the seminar, the professor referenced an additional reading that he had assigned for extra credit. I had done it, but neglected to print it out, or even save it on my laptop. Yes, I had taken reading notes. Luckily, I had my laptop in my bag, so I took it out so I wouldn’t be lost when he mentioned specific instances.

But, to access that specific version of the reading, I had to open the email to which he had attached the document. While searching for his email, I noticed that I had an unread message in my inbox. Being easily distracted, I opened it. Then I felt that familiar discomfort. She was reading my email. I turned to her, but she was still staring intently at my screen. I tried to make eye contact, but I could see her pupils moving as she read the words that were intended for me. I said, “You’re reading my email.” She nodded. Then she said, “It’s not like it was anything private.”

I quickly closed the message, found the document I needed, then tried to make sense of what had just happened.

True, the email wasn’t necessarily private. One of my professors sent out a list of awards for which her students could apply. My classmate may have even been on the list of recipients. But I still felt violated that my classmate was so open in her disregard for my privacy, nor did she see any problem with her actions.

Now that I am removed from the situation, I can’t help but wonder whether my perception is so skewed that I interpreted everything completely wrong. The more I think about it, the more concerned I am that I have the problem. Was all the discomfort only in my head? Was the way in which she was behaving normal, but because I was the one on the receiving end, they appeared especially strange? Or, was her behavior really as appalling as I perceived it? Who is the weird one here: her or me?

sometimes silence is the better option

2011-03-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

I have heard people say that they think that their life would be drastically improved with the addition of a soundtrack. A musical narrator, if you will.

I however, think that this is a terrible idea.

Music adds drama to a given situation. I am a dramatic person by nature. I think you see where this is going.

When I am upset with someone, I tend to wait it out for a bit. I am not a confrontational person. I try to avoid conflict at all costs. However, being who I am, I need to know exactly what happened so I can move on. Some people call it closure; other people call it beating a dead horse. Either way, I like to have rational conversations after the fact. Someone once told me that I handle conflict diplomatically. He also called me a robot, so I’m not sure whether it was a compliment or not.

But this strategy is already flawed. Instead of expressing myself at the relevant time (like when I actually feel the emotions), I wait. I wait until I am as close to calm as I can be. I use this time to write out everything that’s on my mind so that I remember every detail that I think is important, and gives me a guide in case I get distracted.

It seems like rationalizing would be effective in this scenario, especially for someone like me. If only it were that simple. Seeing what I write reminds of why I was upset in the first place, which then escalates my anger. I begin to seethe, writing increasingly more volatile things as I sit fuming. I convince myself that I’m right and the other person is wrong and how could someone be so ignorant and look how I have been wronged until I snatch up my piece of paper and head over to give that person a piece of my mind.

But the momentum of that rage wears off prematurely, no matter how hard I try to keep it going. I imagine epic scenes in which I deliver grand speeches to eloquently describe why the other person is a douchebag, usually about three to five minutes in length (with copious amounts of guilt-tripping, of course). I suppose my body can only handle a certain amount of malevolence, and immediately dissolves it once it crosses that threshold.

The emotional comedown generally occurs during my walk over. My clenched fist relaxes and I glance down at the crumpled, sweaty manifesto of anger. I realize that what I have written is probably not going to ameliorate the situation. Besides, even though most of what I have written is true, I no longer have the motivation to deliver that rage-induced speech.

I re-evaluate what I have written, crossing off irrelevant points or ones with particularly colorful language, then have the aforementioned rational conversation. I manage to say everything that I need to say without worrying that I might fly off the handle at any moment.

I take extra care to hide the piece of paper beforehand. Because I don’t want the other person to think I’m weird.

Imagine the above scenario set to music. Now you know why it’s not such a good idea after all.

new friends?

2011-03-25T16:41:00.000-07:00

With this post, I will have surpassed my previous blog in terms of volume of content. In honor of achieving such a feat, I am going to write about something of great significance.

Just kidding.

As I was sitting around a table with my friends, “studying,” a horrible realization hit me out of nowhere.

These sorts of realizations smack me in the fact quite often. When lying in bed during a typical sleepless night, I’ll suddenly bolt upright with wide eyes, thinking, “I’m mortal. That means I’m going to die.” Luckily I’ve gotten fairly good at calming myself down with all these years of practice. But as a little kid I would end up panicking myself to sleep.

But back to the story. So I was sitting there laughing and chugging caffeine when it occurred to me that, next semester, I’m going to have to make new friends.

The reason I need new friends is that we are all, save for a small minority, going to be abroad next semester. Also, two of my friends will be studying at the same institution, so they don’t technically need to make new friends. Needless to say, I am ridiculously jealous.

The problem isn’t with the act of making friends. As shocking as it may seem, I can pretend to be normal long enough to ensnare someone in my trap of friendship. Besides, no one is actually normal, so it’s really just a matter of time before the other person cracks too.

The problem is with learning a new language.

With friendship comes a slew of vocabulary that makes sense to only us. There are certain phrases tied to events or inside jokes. These things become so ingrained in our collective lexicon that we draw upon them without thinking twice. It is only in talking to other people that we realize just how pervasive our language is.

And the thought of having to learn a new one is terrifying.

*Of course, I’ll miss my friends too. That goes without saying.

the game

2011-03-24T01:02:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know by now, people-watching is one of my favorite activities. As I am more comfortable observing than acting in social situations, I suppose this fascination makes sense. I appreciate the everyday interactions, and I love analyzing the larger implications of such interactions. But what entertains me most is observing people’s methods of extracting themselves from potential awkwardness.

I can assure you that my analysis is not mean-spirited. In fact, I take these golden moments of humanity as opportunities to learn from others—to determine what does and does not work.

Take, for instance, a classic example of highly visible embarrassment. The homecoming football game at my college is the only sporting event I ever attend. I’m not exactly interested in football, but I feel obligated to support my school at least once a year. Besides, large sporting events are fascinating. Emotions are high, and the entire stadium is buzzing with the prospect of public humiliation. Or maybe that’s just me.

One year, as expected, there were a bunch of shirtless guys in the front of the stands, torsos painted with the letters of the mascot. Typical bros. They were obviously intoxicated, and waaay too into the game. Of course, where there are bros, there are gaggles of giggling girls. One particular gaggle consisted of several girls wearing team paraphernalia and short skirts. Probably not the most practical outfits to wear to a sporting event (who knows what has come into contact with the bleachers). After flirting with the guys, who suddenly were not as interested in the game, they began to couple off and have individual conversations. As expected, there was plenty of hair touching and plenty of shoulder shoving.

One couple seemed in especially high spirits. The girl then decided that she wanted a piggyback ride, so she hopped up on his back. Unfortunately for her, he was too inebriated to provide a stable base, so she quickly met the ground with her face.

Keep in mind that she ate it in front of an entire section of the bleachers.

But, instead of getting upset or dying of embarrassment, she got up and pretended that nothing had happened. Of course, she was not very convincing in her charade, especially since she knew that everyone had seen, but she did her best to ignore that we had all seen up her skirt.

Was her coping mechanism an effective diversion? Considering the vividness with which I remember the event, probably not. Her total disregard for what happened struck me as extremely odd, and intrigued me to the point where I continued to watch her after she walked away, curious to see whether she would break character to one of her friends and express her true feelings. But she never did, which made me uncomfortable. Or maybe those were her true feelings. There’s no way for me to ever know.

But when I think about how I would have behaved were I ever to be in such a situation, I doubt I would have done something different. Is there a way to gracefully handle oneself after experiencing something like that?

I suppose one can take preemptive measure and not ask a drunk shirtless guy for a piggyback ride. But taking such extreme precautions may be unreasonable.

itch

2011-03-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

I have an uncontrollable itch. It is located at the top of my left foot at the base of my third and fourth toes. And it is driving me nuts.

Currently, I am in a class that lasts for two hours and forty-five minutes. We’ve just passed the one hour mark. Because of where I am sitting, it will be extremely visible if I take off my shoe to scratch my foot, not just to my professor (who probably already thinks I am strange) but to the majority of my classmates as well. Subtlety is not an option. Plus, my ankle boot is fastened with a buckle, and I am way too lazy to unbuckle it.

It’s okay. I can handle it. Poker face. I wiggle my toes to try to create some sort of friction between my skin and my sock, but to no avail. The itch persists. It heightens. Mocking me and my desire to follow social conventions whilst in the company of strangers. Propriety is ruining my life.

I step on my left foot with my right, digging my heel into the top of my foot. Hoping that the pain will distract from the unbearable itch. It helps a little, but once I return my right foot to its place on the floor, the itching returns. I contemplate keeping my heel jammed into the itchy area, but my right leg is getting fatigued. The flexion is beginning to make my right leg tremble. Plus, my left foot is starting to hurt. A lot. My poker face is wavering and I wince, then shift position once more.

At this point, I realize that my fidgety leg movements may be misconstrued as the uncomfortable shifting of someone who needs to pee. I do not need to pee. I just need to scratch my foot.

I need to pee.

Well, there goes any concentration I may have still had. I sit and wait for the break (we usually break at an hour and thirty minutes). Once the professor dismisses us, I rush to the bathroom. Then I buy coffee.

Class resumes. I sit down.

My foot itches.

all-nighter

2011-03-22T03:37:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, the all-nighter. I am quite certain that everyone who has ever been a student is familiar with this concept. All-nighters tend to happen when the person has procrastinated to the point where the person in question has deluded him or herself into thinking that he or she possess superhuman abilities, and therefore will be able to finish an assignment before the deadline despite not having made any progress on that project thus far.

To clarify, by “all-nighter,” I mean a legitimate all-nighter. As in no sleep for the entire night. I’m not talking when people complain to me saying, “Yeah, I pulled an all-nighter last night. I went to bed at like 2.” That is not an all-nighter. That is going to bed slightly later than normal. Actually, for me, that is a pretty decent hour to sleep.

I have never pulled an all-nighter on purpose.

Sure, I procrastinate. I enjoy putting off work like any other normal person. But it has never gotten to the point where I absolutely have to stay up for an entire night to complete an assignment on time. I don’t think my neurotic tendencies would tolerate that sort of pressure.

I pull all-nighters for absolutely no reason. They just sort of happen. I’ll lie in bed, thinking (as I am wont to do), when suddenly an idea will pop into my head that I will absolutely have to carry out. Sometimes it’s a compulsion to paint my nails. Sometimes I’ll really need to pee. But, more often than not, it will be an urge to write.

If the first thought that pops into my head is something mundane, I’ll do it, then race back to the warmth of my bed to think some more. Then I’ll decide that, since I’m up, I should probably do something productive (as if painting my nails isn’t productive enough).

At that point, I’ll reach over to my laptop and open it, blinding myself temporarily with the stark whiteness of a blank word document. Maybe I’ll have a topic in mind. But, to be honest, I probably won’t. So I’ll stare for a while, maybe type a few odd phrases. If this is a good night, I’ll be overcome with inspiration and write for hours. However, good nights are rare, so I’ll most likely be overwhelmed and will decide to take a break for a couple of minutes. I deserve it. I’ve worked hard. I’ll look for blogs to read or TV shows to watch. Or, I’ll google a topic about which I know very little, and somehow get sucked into Wikipedia, clicking links until I have no recollection of how my starting point of Wassily Kandinsky connected to my end point of Gossip Girl.

Minutes turn into hours and before I know it I’ve wasted perfectly good sleep time doing nothing. I suppose I could go to sleep at this point, but I’ve got class in a few hours and I know that if I sleep now, I could run the risk of oversleeping. Instead, I spend some more time exploring the internet, maybe typing a little bit intermittently so I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

It takes a special type of person to lie awake in bed all night without caffeine and no reason to be awake.

I think they’re called insomniacs.

would ten minutes be excessive?

2011-03-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

I am a creature of habit. I always order the same drink from my school’s coffee shop. I take the exact same route to each of my classes, down the way in which I swing ever so slightly on the handrail in the stairwell in my dorm. I even have a chosen toilet and shower stall in my dorm bathroom that I always use.

But none of these neuroses are as significant as where I sit in a classroom. On the first day of classes, I select my seat very carefully. Where I sit is crucial to my behavior in class—it determines how rapt with attention I am. If the chairs are arranged in rows, I generally choose a seat near the middle in the third row. If the chairs are arranged in a circle, I’ll pick one directly opposite the professor. If the chairs are arranged in a square, I will sit on the side opposite the professor, but closer to the corner closest to the door. I’m not sure why I am compelled to pick these seats, but once I have chosen, my seat will remain my seat until the end of the semester. I even get to class exactly seven minutes early to make sure I get my seat.

This systems works well if there are other creatures of habit in my class. We understand each other, and therefore we do not deviate from the established order.

The trouble only begins when there is a person who likes to “switch things up.” As you can probably tell, I am not one of those people. I tend not to like people like that. They make me uncomfortable with their unpredictability. But, at the same time, I am not a confrontational person. So, when I see someone else sitting in my seat, I panic a little. That is my seat. I need to sit there. But my desire to appear normal to strangers always trumps my desire to sit in my chosen seat. Despite the inner turmoil, I sit somewhere else without causing a fuss.

At this point, if the crazy spontaneous person is decent, he or she will probably say something along the lines of, “Sorry I took your seat! Do you want me to move?” And I will always say no, because I don’t want that person to think that I am crazy. I smile sheepishly and shake my head, then select an inferior seat.

The ordeal does not stop there. Because I have been displaced, I in turn have to displace someone else. I have to inflict upon someone else the agony that I am experiencing. I absolutely hate being put in that position. I feel like such an asshole.

But I do it because I don’t want to make a scene, or make anyone uncomfortable. So I overcompensate by putting all the discomfort on myself. Luckily, since I understand that my thought process is not normal, I’m used to confining a flurry of activity to my mind while keeping a straight face.

Then I resolve to arrive at least eight minutes early next time.

[wo]man in the mirror

2011-03-20T20:57:00.000-07:00

I am not going to deny it any longer. Like most people, I am extremely vain. I like to take care of myself and make sure I am presentable. I don’t think that’s unreasonable. It just doesn’t make sense to go out looking like crap. There’s no way of knowing whom you may run into or what may happen during the day. Besides, walking out the front door with mascara running down my face and my skirt tucked up into my underwear is not something I am trying to do.

But there is a phenomenon inextricably tied with vanity: mirror face. We all do it. And it is always hilarious to watch.

For those of you not familiar with mirror face, I will do my best to explain. I have always been vaguely aware of this phenomenon, but my awareness has been heightened since attending a women’s college.

Next time someone is getting ready to go out, or if you are getting ready and are extremely self-aware, pay attention. You can be as creepy as you want during this step, but I have found that observing people is most efficient when the subject is unaware of your probing eyes. That last sentence sounded more normal in my head, but since I have already typed it out, I might as well leave it in. Plus, the advice is sound, despite its stalker-y intentions.

Anyways, from what I have observed, people have a very specific face that they make when judging their own appearance in the mirror. The look varies from person to person, but the objective is always the same: to position one’s face in what they perceive to be their most attractive expression. Some will tilt their chin down. Others will squint ever so slightly. Still others will engage in duckface, simultaneously pursing and pouting their lips. Gets me every time.

Of course, I am not innocent of this crime. I raise my left eyebrow and tilt my chin diagonally down and to the right. No, I cannot explain why I make that face. But mirror face is an intrinsic characteristic in people determined by instinct, not logic. It's science.

See also: photo face, thinking face, singing face, and flirting face

I foresee a social experiment in my future.

the vault

2011-03-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

I was a very impressionable child. I would pick up mannerisms from television and movies that I watched. In fact, I learned my first expletive (fuck, of course) from Jerry Maguire when I was about 3. While my sister was giving me a shower, I asked her to, “Give me the shampoo, you fucking sister.” Clearly my comprehension of the word was not up to par, but I think I grasped the meaning of the word, as well as how to string words together to form sentences, as time went on.

As I grew up, I thought of my head as a vault. Everything that I had ever seen would be stored in this vault, and consequently would influence any future thought I would have. It seems like this concept was highly philosophical for a child, but my logic was not always correct. Perhaps because I had not lived long enough, or perhaps because I didn’t understand how much sensory information I would gather in a lifetime, I thought every memory would be permanently stored, and it would be amazing.

I didn’t think that keeping memories forever would be such a bad thing. At least, not at first. But then, one fateful day in second grade, recess was canceled because it was raining outside. Instead of allowing us to play independently in the classroom, the teacher decided that our time would be better spent if we all watched a movie as a class.

I was already bitter because I wanted to play on the monkey bars, and the situation was further exacerbated when I was told that I could not draw by myself in the corner. As I sulked in my chair, waiting for the movie to begin, I remember thinking that this movie better be worth it.

The movie was part of R.L. Stein’s Goosebumps series. The father turns into a carnivorous plant in the basement and tries to eat his whole family. Needless to say, it was terrifying (little did I know my mom would show me Carrie about a year later because she thought it would be funny). I watched with wide eyes, my body frozen in horrified fascination. When I went home that day, I was even more paranoid than normal. My senses were heightened to a frightening degree to the point where I would assume a fighting position at the slightest rustle.

When I showered that night, I was so petrified that I kept my back to the wall so that nothing could sneak up on me. All of a sudden, I burst into tears. I convinced myself that I would never be normal again because I would always carry this fear with me. The terror was now an indelible mark in my subconscious that no amount of Disney could erase. With that knowledge, I became extremely depressed.

A couple days later, I returned to being happy. When I processed that I was happy, I remembered that I had been unhappy. And then I remembered why. At that point, I was certain that I would live in fear for the rest of my life. It didn’t matter that my house didn’t have a basement. It didn’t matter that no one in my family cared about botany. All I knew was that a giant plant could eat me at any moment.

But what scared me the most was that I could never escape the memory of the movie. I would have to live like this forever. I would be a paranoid freak for the rest of my life.

I don’t remember when I stopped living in constant fear of plant people. I suppose I found something else upon which I could fixate, and therefore could not dedicate all my time to that paranoia. But, even in the years following, whenever I would remember the movie, the familiar terror would come over me again. It wouldn’t last long, but these bouts reminded me that I would never be able to forget anything.

Luckily, I have grown up since then. I am fully capable of forgetting things now at my ripe old age. But one thing that I will never forget is the sheer terror I experienced when I thought that I would never be normal again. Turns out, that fear was justified.

remember, remember

2011-03-18T19:49:00.000-07:00

There are certain pieces of semi-useless knowledge that have stuck with me through the years. These nuggets of wisdom are more often than not attached to a mnemonic.

First of all, the way mnemonic is spelled just looks wrong. If there were a mnemonic to remind me how to spell mnemonic, I would use it endlessly.

That’s a lie. I don’t think I’ve ever typed the word mnemonic before writing this post, and I don’t think I will again. But it would be nice to know how to spell mnemonic for future reference.

Yes, I realize that the purpose of a mnemonic is to aid in remembering something. But the reason people need mnemonics in the first place is because the thing that they are trying to remember isn’t memorable. And with good reason. Usually that information isn’t worth shit.

In physics, we had to remember the difference between volts and amperes while studying electricity. What is the difference scientifically? I have no idea. Something about currents? But I do know that it’s the volts that jolt and the mills that kill. In other words, while voltage may shock a person, the amps (milliamperes, in keeping with the mnemonic) are what will do the most damage.

I admit now that I am not perfect. Sometimes I mistype. Sometimes (gasp) I even forget how to spell words correctly, but thanks to I before E except after C, I will never misspell receive or achieve. I will even remember to make the exception for neighbor and reign.

But, there is another spelling mnemonic that I use quite frequently. I’m not sure why, but at this point I’m not even surprised anymore, but I use the word schadenfreude with alarming frequency. For those of you who are not familiar with the concept, it entails deriving happiness from seeing another person suffer. Yes, this lovely word finds its way into my conversations. I’m not sure what that tells you about me. Anyways, to remember the correct spelling of this etymological gem, I think of the musical, Avenue Q. At the end of one song, incidentally entitled “Schadenfreude,” a character (Gary Coleman), spells schadenfreude, but with rhythm and intonation: S-C-H-A-D-E-N-F-R-E-U-D-E! Whenever I am unsure about how to spell it, I sing it in my head. Or out loud, depending on my company.

Of course, mnemonics are applicable in mathematics as well. When I was an elementary school student, I had issues. Call me a huge nerd, but I had issues staying interested in the material for the duration of the time we were studying the topic at hand. I’d learn the topic, then get bored and antsy until we moved on to something new. I would finish my homework on the car ride home, which of course made my mom incredibly happy because she would have to deal with a Kayla with a bunch of free time. She asked my teacher to assign me extra homework, but I would finish two weeks’ worth of reading in one night.

But, of course, I have my weaknesses. As my fourth grade teacher discovered, it’s rapid-fire mathematics. Every Wednesday after recess, we would enter the classroom to find a sheet of paper face down on each of our desks. After we turned the papers over, we would have exactly one minute to answer as many multiplication problems as we could. All of a sudden, I wasn’t the first in the class. I was second. I figured now was as good a time as any to give up. There was no way I could catch up. I could fill out a map of the United States, complete with capital cities, in less than ten minutes. I could rattle off every president in order. I could color like a boss. But those damn tests had me stumped.

I mean, I knew the answers. But the pressure from the timer and the knowledge that someone was better than me (even though it was marginally so) freaked me out. So I taught myself mnemonics that were tailored specifically to me. They probably don’t make sense to anyone. But I grouped the multipliers and their product together by forming associations. I can’t even put them into words in an eloquent way. The only one that makes logical sense is 7x8. The answer is 56 because, sequentially, the number line follows 5678.

Perhaps my favorite mnemonic is one that literally contributes nothing to my academic career at the present. When I was in high school I was really into taking honors and AP classes (big surprise). I took AP Biology because I legitimately thought that I would pursue a degree in bio in college. Granted, I still had no idea what I wanted to do with myself after graduation, but I thought that going into biology would afford me many opportunities. Then, when I remembered that writing has always been my dream, I realized that I did not want to be a science major. But that story is for another time.

Anyways, the AP asks that students remember a lot of details about classification of organisms via the categories of kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species. The categories start extremely broad and narrow in specificity. In that sense, the procession is important. To remember the categories, my teacher threw out a few mnemonics: kids playing catch on freeways get squished, kings play chess on fat green stools, kids prefer cheese over fried green spinach. But the one mnemonic that will stick with me forever? King Phillip called out for great sex.

What has this trip down memory lane taught me? Elementary school nerds grow up to be well-adjusted, mature adults.

word generator

2011-03-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

Today’s experiment is brought to you by a word generator. Correction. Today’s experiment would have been brought to you by a word generator. Instead, it is brought to you, yet again, by my neuroses.

Another blogger wrote that she uses one when she’s in a rut and in dire need of inspiration. She’ll see a word that reminds her of a story or inspires her to write a new one, and from there, she’ll take off. I’m not going to concede and say that I am in a rut. But I will admit that I was curious and didn’t see the harm in trying something new.

Ideally, I would have used the word generator to come up with a subject for today’s post. The first word that came up would have reminded me about a funny story or a quirk and I would write furiously. Instead, I sat at my laptop, clicking aimlessly on the “new word” button until I realized that I would never be satisfied. I was looking for something perfect, and “sweat,” “police,” and “cow” just weren’t cutting it for me.

So here I am. The only thing the word generator has generated for me is frustration. I suppose I could analyze why the word generator irked me so (something about unrealistic standards or apprehension about depending on external entities for things I should be able to do by myself).

I could, but instead, I’m going to blame the word generator.

you

2011-03-17T15:33:00.000-07:00

Lately, something has been bugging me. I’m not sure why this trend has become popular. But whatever the case may be, this trend needs to stop. Maybe I need to find new things to read, or new sources of reading material (aka stuff that isn’t pretentious).

I’m talking about you.

No, not you specifically. I’m talking about the use of “you,” the second person subject, as the point of view in fiction. I indulge in literary blogs, and more often than not, the entries are written in second person. I’m not saying this style of writing is stupid, per se. I understand its appeal. By having “you” as the subject of a story, the reader is inextricably tied to the author. The reader experiences the action of the plot with an intensity that is hard to achieve otherwise. The reader is literally in the story.

True to form, I can’t stand it. I can appreciate the narrative structure from an academic standpoint. It’s cool. It binds the reader to Sartre’s notion that the writer and reader are part of an unspeakable pact in which both parties must be active participants. But as a reader, I don’t like to be told what to do in such an explicit way. I like to observe, either from the narrator’s perspective or as a completely external entity. I’m okay with being led around. I will actively follow the plot with an open mind and curious temperament. But once an author tells me that I walk through a door with a beer in hand at some party, I resist. I don’t even drink beer. And why would I attend a party that seems to be filled with hipsters? Not interested. I’m leaving. I don’t like being told how to think and act. Instead of being engrossed in the story, I feel even more alienated.

These stories tend to be really unique. The experiences are obviously taken from a specific point of view, often with a very distinctive voice. Why wouldn’t the writer take ownership of the story and place his or her self, or even a character of his or her own creation, into it? The story would be so much more effective if told with conviction, rather than having the story unfold as the reader is trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Why would a writer place so much responsibility on a reader? How would the writer know that the reader would uphold his or her part of the pact?

Maybe I’m just reading way too deep into this whole “you” thing. But I am taking responsibility for my opinions. I am active. And I know that I overanalyze things about which most people wouldn’t give a second thought.

You sit at your computer, shaking your head while thinking, “Man, this girl is crazy. No wonder she’s writing, alone, in the middle of the night. She should find a hobby. Or a boyfriend.”

a social experiment: eye contact

2011-03-16T16:22:00.000-07:00

Today, on a whim, I decided to conduct a social experiment, because academia is seriously lacking in the whimsy department. This subject of this study is not exactly serious either. It was just a chance for me to quell a curiosity I have had for a while. Also, it gave me the chance to be a creeper.

I have nothing against big cities. I grew up in one, I'm studying abroad in one, and I'm planning to live in one permanently after graduation. With that said, I do think that life in a big city has contributed to my paranoia. When I see someone sitting on a sidewalk, I instinctively look away. I don't engage easily in conversations with strangers, and I most certainly don't permit people I don't know very well to come into contact with anything on my person, let alone my body.

While I was wandering around downtown today, I was thinking about public transportation. More specifically, I was thinking about the way in which most people behave. Even though a high concentration of people are in a confined space with very limited sources of visual interest, people's eyes (mine included) wander nonetheless. Perhaps these people are bored and are seeking something at which to look to pass the time. Maybe they find the map of subway routes fascinating. But the bottom line is that people avoid eye contact. It's funny to me how much effort people take to make sure that they don't lock eyes with a stranger. So, true to form, my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to see what would happen if I tried to make eye contact with as many people as possible.

Rather than ride bart aimlessly for hours (and also because I didn't want to pay for this experiment), I walked around San Francisco with a purpose: to observe people's response to my attempts to make eye contact. There was an inherent flaw in this plan: there are so many visual stimuli in a city--store windows, street signs, crazy people--that aren't there in a crowded subway car, but I wanted to try anyways. Besides, it's not like I am a scientist.

I started my journey in the financial district, hugging Chinatown before heading over to tourist central: Westfield Shopping Centre.

At the beginning, it was challenging for me to even conduct my side of the experiment. I hadn't realized how ingrained this behavior was until I actively tried to break it. I felt vaguely voyeuristic, even though I can assure you I was only trying to make EYE contact. After I got over myself, I started participating for real.

To avoid bitchface, I made sure to keep the eyes soft and my mouth in a pleasant smile, not a soulless frown or a maniacal grin. I didn't want anyone to think I was challenging them, nor did I want them to think I was undressing them with my mind. Or plotting their bloody murder. I was just trying to be friendly.

For the most part, the experiment went as expected. The vast majority of people kept eyes their fixed straight ahead, regardless of the fact that both of us knew that I was staring. It's not like ignoring me would make me stop. In fact, in these instances, I stared harder, often slowing down so I could prolong the awkward.

Other people acknowledged that I was staring by (intentionally or not) darting their eyes to lock with mine, then quickly shifting their eyes back to a forward position. I could sense a lot of nervousness with the rapid eye movements, and a lot of people gave me awkward shrugs before snapping their eyes back to their previous position.

Others met my probing eyes and returned my smile, often accompanied by a slight nod or a vocalized greeting. These cases were mostly men and women in business suits, and it was pretty easy to tell that they were natives. My favorite case was an old man who tilted his fedora at me. Where are all the classy guys my age?

Still others looked at me like I was crazy and/or ready to pounce at any moment. I am by no means a threatening person. I am five foot three, weighing in at a whopping 115 pounds. I don't exactly have the physique of a person who could mug another person. Also, I had a latte in one hand and my purse in the other, so even if I wanted to start a fight, I would have to find a place to put down all my stuff, and that would take a while because there is no way in hell anything but the soles of my shoes would touch the sidewalk. Regardless of these facts, I was met with a lot of fear. Even though I made sure I looked as nonthreatening as possible, some people, mostly tourists, stared at my face with widened eyes and looked like they were holding their breath. Sometimes they would take active measures to increase their distance from me. Because someone like me could do a lot of damage.

I was surprised to find that natives were more receptive to my experiment than tourists. I suppose people from here are used to antics of random people on the street. Just today, I tried to make eye contact with a man wearing a medical gown who was singing and skipping down Powell, but he didn't make eye contact with me. I get the sense he was a little preoccupied with his own affairs.

Also, the tourists were probably already antsy about being in a big city, as evidenced by them clutching their bags to their chests or holding hands with everyone in their party, so I doubt a creepy girl smiling at them would do much to ease their anxiety.

So what did I learn from this experiment? Actively making eye contact with strangers is hard. Making people uncomfortable (to a certain degree) is fun. Chai lattes are delicious.

On the train ride home, there weren't enough seats for my mom, my sister and me to all sit comfortably. So, I sat on my sister's lap. An old man sitting across from us smiled and sighed, "That's nice." Needless to say, I stood immediately and avoided eye contact with him until he left.

thoughts from a place: home (more specifically, the dining room)

2011-03-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

During breaks, I can go an entire day without saying a word. Today is no such day because I called my mom to ask if anything in the fridge was off-limits for me to eat (nothing was). But I have definitely had days like that before. What strikes me is how easy it is. If I lived alone, I would probably never speak. Save for whatever album I happened to be obsessed with at the time, I would live in silence.

When I remain silent for extended periods of time, I start to worry whether or not I would be able to speak normally when the need for such action arises. I know that this anxiety is completely unfounded, but I can’t help but wonder.

Strangely enough, I never break the silence on purpose. Even though I am worried, I don’t test my abilities. It always happens by accident. I will become so enmeshed in my thoughts that hearing the words in my head will not be enough. I close my eyes and visualize them. Even that is not sufficient. I mouth them, then progress to a whisper. Before I realize it, I have ruined the pristine silence. The words flow out of my mouth like a tap, and suddenly my head is no longer overflowing.

Or someone will call my cell phone and I’ll answer.

blockage

2011-03-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

At this point, I’m not sure whether I am qualified to make assumptions that everyone in the world thinks like me.

But rather than dwell on the potential isolation I face when I realize that no one will love me because I am a crazy person, I will try to explain myself. If I can write logically about an illogical subject, maybe I can convince others that the way in which I think is completely normal. Except, now that I’ve revealed my crafty little plan, it is no longer crafty. Disregard what you have just read.

I have writer’s block.

Having writer’s block is completely normal. Show me a writer who has never experienced writer’s block and I will show you…well, I’ll show you all the literature that person has been able to produce.

I try to keep my idiosyncrasies under wraps, especially when I am around people I don’t know very well, or when I’m around a lot of people in general. But, when I’m alone and my creativity is stunted, then I can offer you no such guarantees.

One of my writing professors told me that a foolproof way to bust through a stage of writer’s block is to type random letters. The act of typing stimulates the writing portion of the brain and, eventually, ideas will flow forth. I’m not saying that this method is a complete fallacy, but it has never worked for me. In fact, it hasn’t worked for anyone I’ve spoken to besides that professor. To each her own I suppose. I am in no position to judge.

The first step I take to alleviate writer’s block is to put on my glasses if they are not already on my face. Glasses make you smarter. It’s science.

Next, I change my soundtrack. I always write to music, and when I hit a wall, I like to blame it on outside forces first. The reason I can’t find any words is because these lyrics are shite. At this point, I will usually switch to classical or Sigur Rós. Sexy European wooing noises. God bless Iceland.

Then, I decide to change locales. I’m a fidgety person in general, so I tend to become restless fairly easily. If I come to a halt at my desk, I transplant my workstation to my bed. Or the couch. Or the floor. Or one of my friends’ rooms. If the blockage is serious, I’ll go to the living room in my dorm. If it is catastrophic, I’ll head to the library.

If none of these external remedies help, I know that the writer’s block is serious and I need to make some additional changes. So I drink caffeine. My go-to source is sugar-free Red Bull. It tastes like ass and gives me the shakes, but it gives me the sense of urgency that I need to propel myself forward. If I don’t have any of that miracle (ha) elixir, then I’ll buy a coke from the vending machine downstairs and call it a day. Note, the mere act of walking downstairs often ameliorates the situation because of a change in scenery.

If the caffeine doesn’t work, then I try to be productive in other aspects of my life. I’ll do my laundry, my dishes (sometimes even my roommate’s dishes), and tidy up in general. That way, at least I can say that I managed to complete something. However, doing these tasks is not a guaranteed method in conquering writer’s block.

When I get to this point in frustration, I think about Sarah Jessica Parker.

Just kidding. I think about Carrie Bradshaw. Maybe I watched too many reruns of Sex and the City during my formative years. I wonder if I can attribute my affinity for puns and couture to that show. Whatever the case, when I am deep into writer's block, I recall images of Carrie, typing with the light of her laptop screen illuminating her contemplative face. Sometimes her brow is furrowed. Sometimes her mouth is twisted in an I-know-I-am-being-clever half-smirk. She can write, I tell myself, so I can too. I wind my hair into a messy topknot. Of course I am pantsless. But I pile on layers of rings and necklaces over whatever comic book or band shirt I happen to be wearing at the time. I sit, cross-legged, on my bed. Or, if I was already on my bed, I’ll sit at my desk with my knees pulled up to my chest. I type the phrase “I couldn’t help but wonder…” and imagine my voice reading what I have written thus far over a montage of me typing, pacing my apartment filled with clothes that seem unreasonably expensive for a newspaper columnist.

And then I write.

incongruity

2011-03-13T22:33:00.000-07:00

I firmly believe that if my personality differed slightly, my academic interests would be completely different. I am a humanities major, which entails an interdisciplinary study of culture. Culture isn’t just what people produce (art, literature, music, architecture, etc.), but the way of life that makes the production possible. While it sounds daunting, I think it fits me. First and foremost, if I didn’t like to read and write as much as I do, then I would be screwed. Or a science major. But, as a result of studying culture, a strange phenomenon has occurred.

My major has turned everyone, including myself, into experiments.

I can’t help it, but I find myself analyzing conversations before I can stop myself. Sometimes, when talking to my friends, I take an awkward amount of time to respond because I am testing ways in which I could steer the conversation in my head and what those different paths could potentially tell me. Reality TV has become a nightmare, and not in the way that most people mean it. For me, Jersey Shore overloads my processing capabilities to the point where I often find myself reaching for a pen and notebook so I can take notes.

But, the worst part of my studies being inextricably linked to my life lies in my self-analysis. I am my most available subject, and a willing victim.

One trait of mine that has been honed in my academic pursuits is my tendency to draw connections between seemingly unrelated things. While finding connections can be endlessly entertaining, I have found that looking at the contradictions can often provide even more telling information.

I am by no means faint of heart. I watch horror movies on a regular basis and often find myself laughing at the gratuitous gore and horrible production quality. When I was four, my inner thigh somehow got caught in a bike chain and was bleeding everywhere and I had the presence of mind to clean and bandage myself.

I have a sick fascination with abomination. Over winter break I had knee surgery. While the bandages were still on, the anticipation of removing them was killing me. I was so curious to see how it looked, felt, and even smelled. I became fixated on my knee, counting down the days until my doctor’s appointment. When they were finally removed, I could not stop poking the stitches, noting how a light tap made my entire knee tingle. I studied the way in which my skin accommodated the new scar tissue when my leg was straightened or bent. Plus, the incision was such a strange color. A combination of yellow, brown, and purple that I had never seen in nature. It was so awesome, but of course I couldn’t tell anyone how amazing I thought it was. I know that people think I’m morbid enough as it is.

With that said, I am not a woman without contradictions. While typically scary things do not faze me, I am frightened by insignificant scares. When I am engrossed in my reading (or playing Tetris), the world around me melts away. When a reminder that the outside world still exists, like the sound of my phone buzzing upon receiving a text message, I can’t help but let out a tiny scream. Obviously, I try to muffle it, even if no one else is around, but a scream escapes nonetheless.

No matter how hard I try, the toaster will always get the best of me. There is an indicator on the knob that says how much time is left. I stand, staring, in front of the toaster, fully aware that the appliance will ding within the next ten seconds. I can see the timer count down. I know exactly what’s going to happen. Doesn’t matter. I jump every time, without fail.

So, from an academic standpoint, what does this incongruity tell me? It tells me that I would probably survive a zombie apocalypse. I would be that badass that wouldn’t be afraid to shoot a few heads off or run around with a machete. But if someone so much as sneezed behind me, I would probably pass out. Or shoot myself in the foot.

challenge accepted

2011-03-11T14:50:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of spring break. In honor of this momentous occasion, I have decided to give you yet another peek into my crazed psyche. Yes, to celebrate my pseudo-vacation from work (I still have tons of homework), I will write. Sometimes I worry even myself.

In keeping with the theme of this post, I am going to talk about packing. Packing seems like the kind of activity I would enjoy. It involves planning, thinking logically, and making lists. But rational behavior on my part would be too easy.

Packing turns this neurotic young woman into a crazed competitor.

When packing, of course I begin by thinking practically. I know that I will be somewhere for a certain amount of time under certain weather conditions. My brain can process these facts.

However, once I have established these concrete things, my mind begins to wander. As I start to set aside items that I know I will need, this feeling of inadequacy takes over. I feel threatened.

I’m not saying that I have an insufficient amount of clothing. I am blessed with more than enough clothing to keep me warm and decent (except for when I’m at home. then all bets are off). But, when I pack, I feel like I need to prove myself somehow, either to the people I am going to see or even to the location itself. Because obviously Palm Springs will judge me if I forget to bring a pencil skirt.

So, as expected, things get out of control. I reach for items that I haven’t worn in a while with the hope that their resurrection would make my wardrobe revolutionary once more. I put together ensembles that I think will shatter the way other people perceive clothes. I need to prove that I am creative. No. I need to prove that I am the most creative person ever. My suitcase becomes inexplicably filled with crap that I probably won’t even wear. I recognize that I am being ridiculous, but I can’t seem to edit myself.

As I was packing for this trip, I had to keep reminding myself that no one was challenging me. I think I packed the appropriate amount of stuff for the week, but at this point in my life I’m not even sure that I am a reliable judge of appropriateness. I figure, as long as I can lift my suitcase, it’s probably okay.

This is why I can never work out. Recalibrating the way in which I judge my luggage would require way too much effort.

higher power

2011-03-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

I’m not superstitious, but sometimes I feel like the universe is trying to tell me something.

About two weeks ago, I had to send some paperwork to my study abroad program to let them know that I am planning to attend, as well as give them information about my entire life thus far. I double-checked that everything was filled out, signed, and answered (including the dreaded question: How would you describe yourself?). Yes, everything was completed, so I sealed the envelope, and, with butterflies in my stomach, dropped the envelope into the outgoing mail bin in my school’s mailroom.

Just as a quick sidebar, I always get butterflies in my stomach when I send mail. I think the potential for everything to go horribly wrong freaks me out. Also, the fact that the outcome of this event is completely out of my hands terrifies me. And rightly so.

After I sent the paperwork, I forgot about it. I figured I had done everything I could, and since the postmark would indicate that I had met the deadline, I thought I could relax.

I sent these papers out on a Monday. On the Friday of that week, I received a curious text message from one of my friends while I was at work. Apparently, the envelope containing my paperwork had somehow ended up in her mailbox. Being who I am, I took the news calmly and continued writing.

Just kidding. I freaked the fuck out.

After apologizing profusely to my friend for no logical reason, I thanked her for re-sending my envelope while making a mental note to buy her an extra nice birthday present next year. Then, I hastily emailed my study abroad program to explain the situation, again apologizing profusely and assuring them that I was still interested in attending.

I spent the weekend waiting with bated breath for their reply.

On Monday, probably sensing how frantic I had been, my study abroad program assured me that they had not given away my spot. Also, it didn’t matter when my paperwork arrived, as long as it arrived. And with that, I forgot about it again.

Imagine my surprise when, on Wednesday, I found a suspicious envelope peeking at me through the window in my mailbox. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the envelope contained my paperwork. Well, despite the initial shock of the matter, I maintained my composure and collected the rest of my mail.

Got you again. Of course I panicked.

Why was this happening to me? Does the universe want me to stay put this badly? Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I re-mailed the envelope.

I’m not taking this harrowing turn of events as a sign that I shouldn’t study abroad because I’ve heard superstitious people say that bad things happen in threes. My envelope has only been returned twice.

On a related note, Fate, if you’re reading this, please know that I am not trying to tempt you. Return to your regularly scheduled program. P.S. you’re looking fabulous.

rebel with a (valid) cause

2011-03-10T13:40:00.001-08:00

When you look at me, I know the first thought that crosses your mind.

That girl is rebellious.

Clearly the face of an anarchist.

The thing is, I don’t rebel in the ways most teenagers do (I just realized that I am almost out of the teenage demographic. Minor panic attack). My rebellion, like most aspects of my life, takes place entirely in my head, usually without any indication to the outside world that I am, in fact, rebelling.

I’d say that when it comes to cleanliness, I am fairly good at keep things tidy. Of course, during periods of stress, my living space becomes ripe with what I like to call “controlled chaos,” but otherwise, I like things neat. Such was not the case when I was a kid. But that story is for another time.

In general, I am good with chores. I will help out. But, when I am feeling rebellious, I become difficult.

Sometimes, on a whim, I’ll decide to do the dishes or vacuum or clean the mirrors or do something else banal that still counts as productive. Right as I am about to start said activity, someone, usually my older sister, will ask me to do the task that I had already decided I was going to do.

One would think that someone asking me to do something would provide the extra incentive to do it (another thing to put on my to-do list!). If you haven’t guessed it already, this is the point in the story where the rebelliousness kicks in.

I nod, say that I will do it, and then do it. Simple as that. Maybe I’ll grumble a little to express my displeasure.

But it is in no way simple in my head.

When I initially decide to do the deed, I feel happy. I have a concrete thing to do that I can accomplish and cross off of a list. I daresay I am even excited. But once someone asks me to do the same task, the magic is lost. No longer am I embarking on a journey by my own volition. No, that freedom has been taken away. I am demoted from explorer to oppressed. That former enthusiasm is replaced by rage.

At this point, I realize that I am crazy, and there is no possible way to explain this phenomenon without confirming suspicions that I should be locked up. Yes, sometimes even I am self-aware.

Rage. Right. I am brimming with incendiary anger (flames, on the side of my face, heaving, breathing, etc.). But, because I realize that this rage is irrational and therefore cannot be blamed on anyone but myself, I keep it in to the point where I am seething.

So what do I do? I rebel. I procrastinate. I'm not going to do the thing you wanted me to do at your earliest convenience, even though I was literally about to start it. Then, when I feel like I have rebelled enough, I take my frustration out on the chore. The chore started it, and therefore must be punished. I mean, I’ll still do the chore. Of course. But I won’t like it.

about me

2011-03-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

As you may or may not have guessed by now, I tend to focus on minute details that no one else seems to notice. But that’s what makes me so special. Or, at least, interesting enough to keep around.

But the insignificant does bog me down from time to time. When a person sitting in front of me has a white hair or a tag sticking out, I feel like that person put it there on purpose. To taunt me. To see how long I’ll be able to stare at it without my left eye twitching or before I have to sit on my hands to physically prevent myself from doing anything. Even though I may be crazy, my scope of crazy will not extend to breaking all social rules and touching a stranger. Plus, that would be gross. Who knows where that person has been?

On an unrelated note, I have this inexplicable rage against those stupid floppy bows girls wear in their hair. Not little girls. I think bows on little girls are adorable. I’m talking about girls on campus who parade around under those bows that look like they’re capable of taking flight, propeller-style, usually while wearing the entire stock of American Apparel at once. I understand that it’s a fashion choice. I get it. I went back to wearing six-inch heels a week after I had knee surgery. But for some reason, whenever I see a girl wearing one of those giant ass bows, I want to calmly walk over to her, rip it off of her head, and stomp it into a pulp on the ground. Probably while keeping a straight face the entire time. Yes, I know I am a horrible person, but at least I have never acted upon it. Yet.

I was recently accepted into a study abroad program. Among the multitude of paperwork I had to return was a housing form, in which I was to describe in detail my sleeping habits, dietary restrictions, and any allergies for my future roommate. All of these questions were manageable. I like questions that have clear answers. That way, I know exactly what is required of me and can deliver.

Then things took a turn for the worse. At the end of the form, there was quite a bit of empty space that I was prompted to fill with my answer to the question “How would you describe yourself?”

Shit.

My first reaction was one of panic. I have absolutely no idea how to answer such an open-ended question. What did it even mean? Physically? Mentally? Emotionally? Philosophically? I don’t think I can answer any of those questions properly in the allotted space while still sounding sane/worthy of attending the program.

Overwhelmed with the possibilities before me, I turned to rebellion. I don’t know, yellow form, how would you describe yourself? Yellow? A form? A smug bastard? I hate you.

So I put it off for a while. I filled out every question on every form except for that one. I put it off until the deadline approached. The inevitable had finally come. I had to answer the damn question, because if I didn’t, I would have to turn in my form late, and if there’s anything I hate more than vaguely worded questions (and people who eat noisily), it’s being late.

As I started planning out what to write, another slew of questions hit me. What sort of tone do I want my answer to convey? Do I want to sound intelligent? I suppose sounding smart would be nice, but I didn’t want to alienate my future roommate. Did I want to sound friendly? Well, of course, but being friendly also runs the risk of being hokey, like one of those people who uses the wink wink nudge nudge motion unironically in normal conversation. Did I want to be funny? Yes, but I am aware that I have an odd sense of humor. I don’t know how my future roommate would respond to a girl that writes that she probably wouldn’t kill her in her sleep.

In the end, in addition to the reassurance that I am really easy to get along with and am a good listener, I said something about how I’m the type of person who seems quiet at first, but once I am comfortable, my true personality emerges. It wasn’t technically a lie, and my future roommate is just going to have to find out exactly what that personality is later on. Surprise!

a test

2011-03-08T11:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I am far from intelligent. I am not sure whether the fire in my dorm today was intended to be a test of my intelligence, but if so, I failed miserably.

Before I begin that story, I must preface with another story. Well, it’s more of an explanation than a story, but I shall begin with it nonetheless.

While I am a functioning member of society who enjoys adorning herself in pretty clothing while out in public, such is not always the case. As soon as I enter the safe haven of my living space, a transformation occurs. My clothes become restricting and unnecessary, and I have found that the only remedy to my extreme discomfort is to shed them.

In other words, I don’t wear pants at home. Ever.

So, with that background information in mind, imagine my morning. My 9’o clock class across campus had been cancelled, so I was enjoying some quality time in my room—silently laughing at the fact that my roommate’s class did not get cancelled so she still had to put on proper clothes and makeup—being productive as fuck. Okay, so that was a lie. I was listening to music while pretending to read Sartre.

Without pants.

Then, the dreaded sound. I don’t know how to accurately describe the earsplitting shitstorm that was happening right outside my door, so BEEP BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKERS BEEP will have to suffice. Yes, the fire alarm. Oh happy day.

My dorm is notorious for having extremely sensitive fire alarms. Someone decides to make popcorn? BEEP BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKERS BEEP EVERYBODY OUT OF THE BUILDING. Toast? BEEP BEEP BEEP MOTHERFUCKERS BEEP STOP SLEEPING BITCHES. Pizza? Actually, nothing bad has happened from trying to make pizza.

So, given my previous knowledge of the fire alarm system, I figured I had a few minutes to collect my things, find a clean pair of sweatpants, and amble out the door, complaining with my neighbors about the loud fucking alarm.

But today was different. I smelled smoke (my hair actually still smells a little smoky. thank god for perfume).

I know that people say to keep calm during emergencies and exit the building in an orderly fashion. These people are full of bullshit.

I leapt off of my bed and looked for the closest items of clothing I could find. Unfortunately, in my panic, all I found was a hoodie and a pair of flip-flops. Good enough! I shoved both my arms into the sleeves at once and zipped that bad boy up. The flip-flops I threw on the ground in the hallway and literally ran into them.

As soon as the door shut behind me, I realized that I was not wearing pants. But I could die. So I pulled the hoodie down to cover my butt and kept going. Society’s rules about pants were not about to get in the way of my fresh air.

Of course, I was already self-conscious. I wasn’t wearing pants. But no. That sort of humiliation would not be enough. The building out of which I had just emerged was screaming BEEP BEEP BEEP LOOK AT THIS STUPID BITCH BEEP, calling attention to my pantsless existence. To make matters even better, I had to walk past a tour group to check in at the designated safe zone. WITHOUT PANTS.

So what did I do? What any normal, rational human being would do, of course. I put on my hood and pulled on the drawstrings, hiding my face.

Did I win today? I don’t think so. Touché universe, touché.

Sidebar: Apparently it's National Women's Day. I did my gender proud.

Also, don't be fooled into thinking that I have learned something from today's ordeal. I'm still not wearing pants.

nothing

2011-03-07T22:57:00.000-08:00

I'm going to take a controversial position. No, not like that. Keep it in your pants.

I have an unpopular opinion. One that has never been expressed by anyone else before: I am afraid of nothing.

The phrase may be misleading at first, but I mean it in earnest. I am afraid of nothing. I am afraid of doing nothing. Being nothing. Meaning nothing.

Before you scoff and call me an insufferable hipster having an existential crisis, please hear me out. This fear is real to the point where I can’t sleep at night and can’t function properly during the day either.

I know. This is quite a departure from my previous posts. Sorry. I should have warned that something like this might happen from time to time. What caused such a dark turn in my writing mood? The funny thing is, absolutely nothing (see why it’s so terrifying?).

I was sitting in my room, painting my nails and half-watching South Park on my laptop when I got the sudden urge to write. This urge is not uncommon, and I suspect will not cease any time soon. So, after I finished up, I opened a new document and sat, staring, at the blank page. And what did I see? Nothing—except for a blinking cursor, which is really an indicator of nothing.

Sometimes nothing can be okay. Having nothing on a page means that I can fill it with something without distraction from a previous something. But tonight was different. Seeing the nothing made me wonder whether I would be able to put a something where the nothing was that would be worth, well, something. Would I come up with a something that would be different from other somethings that other people have produced? What could I possibly do that would make my something something? I suppose at this point, I could have just done nothing. I could have shut my laptop and gone to bed like a normal person. I could have put this panic-stricken moment in the back of mind to forget. But no. I chose to write, because not writing is far worse than the alternative. If I stop, then when the next time comes that I want to write, I’ll tell myself that I need to make a grand gesture to return, which will freak me out even more to the point where I’ll put it off again.

So I do something. I type. But the fear still haunts me. How do I know that I’ll be able to be someone/thing of importance? I don’t mean to say that I want to be powerful. I don’t. I just want to know whether, one day, I’ll be someone that someone else chooses. There are millions of people out there who do what I do (whatever that may be), and most of them are probably better than I am at doing said thing. So why would I be chosen? What do I have to offer that makes me more than better than nothing? What makes me something?

At this point, I may have lost you. And that’s okay. I’ve lost myself a little bit too. Anxiety is a wonderful thing. Okay, maybe it’s not. But at least it’s something. Which is more than I can say about myself at this moment.

I don’t want to end this post on a downer. So, instead, I will tell you the reason why I painted my nails tonight.

When I know I’m going to have a late night, I paint my nails. If I’m super serious, I’ll even do my toenails. But why? you rational-minded people may ask. I will tell you why.

I am vain. But I am also resourceful.

By painting my nails, I have made a time commitment to staying awake. I have to remain upright and outside of my covers lest I ruin a nail. Being awake will make me feel guilty, so, fueled by that guilt and possibly by nail polish fumes as well, I get shit done.

It’s a win-win situation. Pretty nails and accomplishment. Although this new quick-dry topcoat has made getting shit done marginally more difficult.

At least my nails look pretty.

new

2011-03-07T13:10:00.000-08:00

I'm going to be honest with you. I didn't write yesterday because I follow rules about new relationships to the letter. Rules prescribed to me by society, so I know that they're infallible.

If I write too much too soon, then I appear over eager. God forbid you know how excited I actually am. No, it's better for our relationship if I feign nonchalance and (hopefully) make you feel as insecure as I do about what's unfolding before us.

No. I can't be completely, unironically enthusiastic. I can't just put everything I have out there, because that means I will have to be vulnerable. No. I must be a fortress of impenetrable rocks and issues that protect my ideas. If you think you deserve to know everything right away, you're wrong. I need to withhold until you earn the right. Being truthful and open right off the bat is crazy. Enigmatic deception is the best policy.

We need to play games with each other to the point where neither of us know exactly where we stand, yet cannot ask each other flat out because we're already past that point in our relationship (?). No, we speak to each other in allusions and entendres until we think we've cornered the other. What's important here is power, not honesty.

So, here I am. I waited a day, and now the ball is in your court. I can't be the one to do something twice in a row. Your move.

grace period?

2011-03-05T10:26:00.000-08:00

Is there a rule about how long one should wait between posting? If so, prepare yourself for my earth-shattering defiance. I am posting twice in one day within an hour. This blog is about to get crazy.

Anyways, the real reason why I'm writing again so soon is a little phenomenon I like to call "achievement high." I am an achievement junkie. In fact, I'm on an achievement bender as I type.

So what exactly does this "achievement high" entail? Funny you should ask, invisible internet audience, because I was just about to explain (hopefully without sounding like a freak [too late]).

I like to set deadlines for myself. 300-page book? I will finish 100 pages by dinner today. And when I do? HIGH. I have to keep going to prolong this thrill. So I keep reading until I remember that I haven't eaten all day and may pass out. But still. The high lives on. I fucking did something. I am a functioning member of society.

And then it just spirals out of control.

To do list? Put shit that I can very easily achieve/ shit I have already done on the list. BAM. CRAZY HIGH. I am an unstoppable force of nature that can do anything. I will do whatever it takes to keep this high going, even if it means writing "check email" on my list even though I do it anyways. I am a superhero.

But, all good things must come to an end. In this case, the end rears its nasty-ass head in the form of an "achievement comedown." At first, the comedown doesn't seem so bad. I couldn't finish something in the time I allotted for the task. Not a tragedy. I can keep going, right? Wrong. I panic (internally, because otherwise my friends [surprisingly, yes, I have friends] would think I am crazy, which they already do, but not to this extent) and then try to push through. But I get overwhelmed and have to do another task, then tell myself that the reason I didn't finish the first task was because I was distracted, which obviously is not true but I like to tell myself pretty little lies sometimes. And who doesn't? Just today, I assured myself that eating raw ramen noodles is totally acceptable behavior for an adult, considering how similar they taste to chips.

So yes, in short, I am prone to silent panic attacks. I ride these highs and sink with the lows. And now I've completely forgotten what I was doing. I should have written it down.

obligatory awkward first post

2011-03-05T10:05:00.000-08:00

I wonder how many cliches I can fit into this first post.

Hi. My name is Kayla. I'm a college student in Southern California with a tendency to procrastinate. I initially mistyped "procrastinate" as "procreate," which would have given this blog an entirely different first impression. I am on a path of self-discovery. I think. Also, I like profanity.

So, why blog? A couple years ago, I tried fashion blogging. As you can see from my staggering 22 whole posts (please don't look at them), I was not great at it. The pressure kind of freaked me out, and to be honest, it felt really contrived. But I keep having this nagging feeling that I should still be blogging. I think the reason I stopped fashion blogging was because I didn't want to commit to one specific genre of blogging. Or I was really lazy. Whatever.

I decided to start this blog on a whim, mainly because I don't want to read a 300-page book today, nor do I want to write about a subject that bears no real meaning on my life at this moment. Sometimes, I get inspired and just want to write, but find myself impotent because I don't have anywhere to put my thoughts, and no one who really wants to listen.

My point is, I am compelled. I need an outlet. I don't even care if no one reads this post, or any post that is yet to come. I just need to write. So I will.